


The Promises of Angels

by shadowsong26



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 70
Words: 102,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsong26/pseuds/shadowsong26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick has never been anything more than a pawn, and he knows that--but even a pawn, strategically placed, can change the game for everyone.</p><p>It's a world full of angels, demons, and humans all fighting for control of the board. And while all he's really playing for is what he was promised in the first place--peace that never seems to come--Nick finds himself dragged back into a high-stakes game he can't afford to lose. And, no matter how much he wants to break free, it becomes increasingly clear that something buried deep inside him has changed, in ways he can't possibly understand; ways that just might keep him involved in the horrors that Heaven and Hell both inflict on humanity and, in the end, make things better--or worse. Along the way, there are friends and foes, wardens and protectors--and those who would try to use him to shape the future they want to see, with or without his consent. It begs the question--with truth and trust always in short supply, is there ever any winner, in the end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> AU from...depending on how you interpret things, from either _Swan Song_ or _Goodbye, Stranger._ Nothing overtly departs from canon (meaning the boys’ story doesn’t change) until _Goodbye, Stranger,_ but there is a lot of background that isn't covered by the show and is most likely AU starting at _Swan Song,_ though it is theoretically canon-compliant through _Hibbing 101._ Anything not explicitly rewritten (i.e., various MotW plots, etc.) can be assumed to have happened more or less as in canon.
> 
> I started working on this last summer, so, apart from one brief scene, it doesn't take s10 plots or character/backstory revelations into account. The most important thing to note, obviously, is that my depiction of Claire and Amelia this many years on is different from what we were shown in canon; the breakpoint there is probably at least partially due to them staying together.
> 
> Anyway, this whole thing started with asking myself "hm, what if Nick survived?" and spiraled out of control from there. Many thanks to my beta deansgirl369 for all the help and advice, and just_ruth for the amazing [artwork,](http://just-ruth.livejournal.com/583692.html) and the members of bigbangwritersroom on tumblr and, as always, my ever-patient roommate, for serving as a sounding board.

**Prologue**

 

_"John Doe, late thirties, severe burns to the face and--"_

No, that can't be right.

The words are far away, so far away, woven into the background of the sirens and he's hot, white-hot all over, pain and heat and a sudden, almost frightening emptiness and he can't move. He still can't move.

_"Sir, can you hear me? Are you with us? Can you tell us your name?"_

Or maybe it's just the sirens talking to him, or maybe they're some product of his fevered, shattered mind, or maybe this is what Hell is actually like, because he's dead. He should be, anyway. No one could live through what he's lived through in the past year, gradually hollowed out like a gourd by light and blood and light and blood and ice.

And yet...

Something shines in his eyes and he tries to shut them, tries to whimper, but he can't move, and no sound comes. His body, it seems, is no longer used to obeying its own mind.

_"Pupils equal and reactive, hypotensive and tachycardic, breath sounds..."_

The voices fade back into the sirens again, and all he sees are dim shadows holding sparks, giving way to fluttering afterimages, until even those leave him, empty and motionless and burning and screaming, endless and silent.

No one answers. No one hears. Dozens of hundreds of thousands of needles bury themselves into his hands and feet and maybe he flinches, but he just can’t tell anymore. None of this makes sense.

He’s alone--he’s _alive_ \--and he doesn’t know why.

All he can do now is scream inside his head and listen to it echo through his empty, broken soul.


	2. Prologue

**Meg**

 

It was only a body.  
  
But Hell was in chaos, and the loyalist demons on Earth were dying in waves while fucking  _Crowley_  somehow managed to take over--and, sure, he had been Lillith's favorite pet for a while, but he was practically an  _infant_  and a traitor on top.  
  
Besides, it was a very  _symbolic_  body. And a body full of secrets.  
  
The really annoying part, Meg thought, was that it had taken her so fucking long to _find_  it. After everything had fallen apart, she'd gone right to where it had last been seen, but it had fucking disappeared. It had taken her two months to track it down.  
  
Granted, the bulk of the delay was her own damn fault. Meg had been sure that someone else had fished it out of the detritus and spirited it away before she got the chance. The last thing she'd expected was to find it fucking lying out in the open in a hospital--one that lacked agents of either Heaven  _or_  Hell--less than five fucking miles away from where it had been dropped.  
  
But she had finally found it, and they were here now. She stationed her minions on all the entrances, as subtly as she could--the last thing she needed was fucking Crowley catching on--then stashed her host in a supply closet, stole a nurse, and headed for the ICU.  
  
Meg didn't need the chart to find the body, of course, but her plan hinged on drawing as little attention as possible until she actually walked it out of there. So she grabbed the chart from the nurses' station, for cover, and headed for its bed.  
  
As soon as she got a good look at it, she knew her plan had to change, and fast. She couldn't put off the retrieval; that risked Crowley or one of the angelic factions finally cluing in and snatching it right out from under her. But the original plan had been to get to the body, jump ship, ride it out to her most loyal lieutenant, then swing back for her own host. But the body and soul were too badly damaged. If she went according to plan, even  _she_  would render it useless.  
  
She swore under her breath and calculated how much time she could buy--if she stalled the monitors, she could haul the body out, but she would need time. Teleporting out, with the body as fucking fragile as it was, was off the table. It could probably hold up under an invisibility spell, at least, so--  
  
"Rose?"  
  
 _Shit._  True, she  _could_  slaughter half the fucking hospital--or more--if she had to, to secure her asset. It wouldn’t exactly be hard--would probably even be fun. But that would draw a lot of attention that she couldn’t fucking afford right now. Mowing down a couple hundred humans was one thing. Extracting the body with a fucking army of fucking Crowley’s minions, or whatever Heaven might throw at her once they figured out this hospital had a potentially valuable asset inside, on the other hand…  
  
So, instead, she turned, prepping a fake smile so she could blow off whoever was interrupting her. That wouldn’t be as much fun, but it would be almost as fucking easy.  
  
Or maybe not, given it was her host's fucking ex. Perfect. Well, the bitch had good taste, at least; he was hot. "Hey."  
  
"What are you doing up here?" he asked, with a warm smile of his own. "I thought you were on day shift now?"  
  
"I am. Just checking in on John Doe here." She shrugged. "What can I say? I'm curious."  
  
Ex-Boyfriend frowned. "Are you okay, Rose? Something about you seems...different."  
  
And of  _course_  he was too damn perceptive. Fuck. There was  _always_  one, and just her luck she fucking ran into him,  _and_  he knew her host. Well, she didn't have time to sweet-talk him into leaving. Too much chance someone else would interrupt, and the longer she was stuck here trying to blow curious humans off, the more likely it was the whole fucking operation would fall apart.  
  
She lunged at him, faster than his eyes could follow, and ripped out his throat before spoofing the equipment and cutting the body free.  
  
She slammed her invisibility spell down on the two of them, and its soul stirred a little, overloaded and disoriented.  
  
It was  _hot._  
  
It felt so fucking  _wrong,_  that this body was so hot.  
  
Whatever. More important things to deal with. Like getting the fuck  _out_  before someone responded.  
  
She pelted through the hospital, dragging the body behind her and ignoring the doctor's blood dripping off of them both. Except--damn, she was leaving a trail.  
  
 _Swing by the closet, switch, clean it off._  
  
Her host was right where she'd left her, in a boneless puddle behind a shelf of clean sheets. She slid back in, leaving the dazed and horrified Nurse Rose behind.  
  
There was less blood on the body she'd retrieved. Good. Most of that was its own. Less good.  
  
She grabbed it again and headed for the nearest exit.  
  
"Problems?" her lieutenant asked, with an arched eyebrow.  
  
"Minor," she said. "Had to go off book, but it's taken care of. Let's get back to base."  
  
He nodded and signaled the others to join them in waves, before following Meg to their getaway car. "And once we're there?" he asked.  
  
She strapped the body into the back seat, then slid into the driver's side. "Figure out how to keep it alive."  
  
"Of course,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat after a searching look at their prize. “You were right, the soul is still intact," he mused. "We might be able to extract some information after all, to help us with our war."  
  
Meg shook her head. "Not yet."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"It's too fragile. And we’ll probably need it to get our Father back. So, for now, we keep it alive. When it stabilizes, then we see what we can learn."  
  
Her lieutenant turned to look again at the mostly-dead body in the backseat, then sighed. "Sounds like fun."  
  
"Stop whining,  _you_  won't be on babysitting duty," she said, then slammed on the gas, clearly indicating she considered the conversation over.  
  
But he was right. It sucked. The whole fucking situation  _sucked._  The way they'd lost, what Crowley was doing to Hell, the fact that there were so few of the old guard left...the world didn't make any damn  _sense_  anymore.  
  
And the body was all  _wrong._  That's what sucked most of all. It was fragile, bleeding, broken and barely holding on, and too damn warm.  
  
But it was the best asset she could get ahold of right now, and she wasn't about to lose it. So she'd find a way to keep it alive, and figure out where to go from there.  
  
Nick might be a hell of a long way from what she needed, but he was a place to start.  
  
He was all she had left.


	3. Part 1, Chapter 2: Meg

**Meg**

 

Crowley wasn't dead.

Meg was absolutely certain of that fact, no matter how convincing the fucking fireworks had been. And she'd been digging deep in the months since she’d watched him “die” and had fucking finally found conclusive proof. Just because her followers were pretty much all dead didn't mean she had _no_ sources left in Hell. The so-called King was being discreet, but not quite discreet enough.

But he'd killed almost all of the old guard now, and the few who were left saw no advantage in fighting anymore. She'd basically been left completely on her own. Fucking traitors.

All she really had in her corner now was Nick, and he wasn’t nearly as much of an asset as she'd hoped. He was too fucking damaged, inside and out--too damn weak to do what she needed. At this point, it looked like even if she _could_ figure out how to use him to get Lucifer back, he wouldn't survive the fucking process long enough for it to actually fucking work. And digging through his memories for intel--which she fucking _knew_ was there--without damaging him even more and losing more ground than she gained took patience and resources she didn't have.

Just holding him and keeping him breathing might be beyond her reach now.

Fuck it all.

Meg got to the safehouse where she'd stashed her asset, making sure she wasn't followed. At least the demon she'd left guarding Nick hadn't fucking jumped ship or died.

_Yet,_ the increasingly pessimistic voice in the back of her head said.

She did her best to ignore it.

"Any problems?" she asked the guard.

He shook his head. "Still breathing, just as ordered. Any progress?"

"Crowley's definitely still alive," she said. "Still haven't cracked the fucker’s game, but I'm getting close."

"And our people?"

She eyed the guard, trying to gauge his--not loyalty, exactly. He was as much a loyalist as she was, or she wouldn't have put him in charge of watching Nick. Even if he jumped ship, he'd keep that secret, at least.

Probably.

But so many fucking demons had ditched her lately--demons she would’ve _sworn_ were solid--and just because he wouldn't sell her one asset to fucking Crowley didn't mean he'd keep guarding it for her.

"Still fighting," she said. _The ones that haven't died or deserted, at least. So basically me. I'm still fighting._

He nodded. "Right. Of course."

"He talking today?" Nick had good days and bad days--the worst were the ones where he was completely shut down, spending hours staring at nothing, and they had to do fucking _everything_ for him. At least on his other "bad" days, where he was in too much pain to be useful, they had screams to listen to, off and on.

But sometimes, he had good days--days where he talked a little, and where pain wasn't the default, so they could actually get shit done. Those days were coming more often lately, from what Meg had been told, at least, which was a fucking relief. Hard to get any use out of him if he couldn't function at all.

"Not to me, but he's flinching and not screaming, so." The guard shrugged.

"Worth a shot, then," she said, and turned to enter the room they were keeping him in.

She felt a rush of movement behind her, and turned to see the fucking guard--the last of her active followers--was gone.

"Son of a _bitch!_ " she yelled, but she wasn't really surprised.

She took off after him--loyalist or not, he was the only living demon, other than her, who knew where Nick was being held. He couldn't leave alive.

He didn't get far. She still had that much going for her, at least. And the blade she'd stolen from Castiel, back when fucking Crowley faked his death, slid neatly into his host's heart from behind, killing them both.

That done, she returned to the safehouse and hesitated for a few seconds at Nick's door.

She was really, _really_ screwed here.

The chances of her holding on to him now--like she'd done for almost two fucking years--without help, were pretty much nil. Taking him with her on the run was equally stupid. And she couldn't let him wander off--fucking Crowley or one of Heaven's factions would snap him up. And, based on the few fragments she and her people _had_ managed to extract from him, she could _not_ allow that.

She pushed open the door and he flinched away, back against the wall, getting as far away from her and the door as his restraints would allow.

"Relax, baby," she said. "It's just the two of us now."

That didn't seem to reassure him at all.

Fuck. She wasn’t in this to reassure him, anyway. He was here to be used, and maybe help her _fix_ all the shit that had gone so fucking _wrong_ since Azazel’s plan had finally come through and the Cage had opened.

And now she was cornered, she had _no_ fucking options left, no intel, no allies, no--

...well, she did have _one_ option. And avoiding it to keep him undamaged had done fuck all for her so far.

Fuck. Okay. She was doing this, and the little part of her that felt like a dumbass punk kid trespassing could shut the fuck _up_ already.

Before she could change her mind, she tilted her head back, burst out of her host, and shot across the room and into him.

As soon as she slid into his skin, his fucking pain hit her and it took a monumental effort to lock it away, and even _that_ she couldn’t do completely; she could feel him practically falling apart around her. Any ghosts of memories, of transferred thoughts or orders, were too fucking hard to grasp. And-- _fuck,_ his agony was starting to wear on _her_ \--one last gift, she supposed, a layer of protection for her Father's faithful servant, securing him against other possessions.

Or maybe not, maybe he'd just been marking his territory. She had no fucking clue.

She reverted back to her regular host, leaving Nick curled up on the ground, vomiting blood. Huh. Less damage than she’d expected--but, then again, she’d been in there all of like thirty fucking seconds.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" she asked the empty air--possessing him had been the only card she had left in her hand. And she was still fucking _hurting_ from it, and it had been fucking _worthless._

Everything she fucking had left was fucking worthless.

He shivered and huddled in on himself.

"Don't look at me like that, baby," she said. "I'm not gonna hurt you if I don't have to. I could've done that a long time ago, you know, but I knew it wouldn't work."

"A-are you...are y-you going to kill me now?" he asked, looking at his hands instead of her.

She _could_ kill him. It even made sense--she couldn't repair him enough to use him, not with the resources she was fucking left with, and she couldn't keep him fucking secure by herself...and killing him, if she did it right, would at least ensure no one _else_ could use him, either.

But...no.

"Sorry, baby," she said. "But he made sure you survived, and he must have had a reason. Until I figure that out, you're stuck with me."

He nodded, and shakily wiped the blood from his mouth. "Okay."

One good thing about her prisoner, he didn't fucking argue much.

On the other hand, he was really only stuck with her as long as she could hold him. _Fuck._

She needed friends. Powerful friends. She could save her own fucking ass from Crowley, no problem. The King was young, and ambitious, but she was older and smarter than him. She'd seen dozens--hundreds-- _thousands_ \--of fucking demons like him come and go. She could ride him out. In a century or two, things would go back to normal.

Except none of the other would-be kings had stepped into a total fucking power vacuum like this one. Azazel dead, Lillith dead, fucking Cain off sulking or whatever, the Knights extinct, the Captains the next thing to it and the ones that were left were playing their own games anyway--anyone who had the power to storm Hell and hold it solid was out of the game, one way or another. In all of Meg's long, _long_ life, that had never happened before.

And that was what made Crowley so fucking dangerous. Not that he was clever, not that he somehow managed to pretty fucking consistently screw his allies _just_ enough to stay in control while still protecting the possibility of a future fucking alliance, not that he'd been one of Lillith's favorites, not that he'd built himself a fucking war machine of souls as King of the Crossroads. Well, yeah, sure, none of that _helped,_ but if Hell had had any _real_ leadership left, none of that would've fucking mattered.

Still, she could probably ride him out. She wasn't exactly fucking stupid herself. As long as she kept moving, she could bide her time.

But _Nick_ couldn't. And the last thing anyone wanted fucking Crowley to have was an asset like the vessel--a fucking _goldmine_ of information, given the resources and the patience to dig it all out. And she had no idea about the King’s patience, but he sure as fuck had _resources,_ in spades.

And that wasn't even counting the _other_ uses Nick might have--he might or might not be a new key to the Cage, and whatever had fucking burned her when she'd possessed him probably meant something. Fuck if she knew for sure. She hadn't had time to figure out how to take him apart, not without ruining him.

And now she was gonna fucking _lose_ him. Maybe to Crowley, maybe to Heaven--who the fuck knew.

She could maybe afford a couple days, or a week or two, to try and plan it out. If she didn't come up with anything soon, though...

Maybe she _would_ have to kill him. Fuck. Better that than giving him up to fucking Crowley, but she didn't know why Nick was alive. And his survival _had_ to mean something.

Meg might have been coaching her own fucking team now--or trying to, anyway--but she was still loyal, or maybe just nostalgic, enough that giving up that meaning hurt. Despite the fact that fucking Crowley was probably right about--

Fuck.

She really was screwed here.

And then, with fucking _perfect_ timing, the universe fucking _shook._

Behind her, Nick yelped--interesting. She was fucking old enough to feel that, when most demons wouldn't, but that _he_ picked up on it...

Fuck. Just when she was losing him, she found more things she wanted to dig out. _Fuck._

"Easy, baby," she said, warily.

"Wh-what...?"

"I don't fucking know what it was," she snapped. She pulled her blade out again. "Stay here, stay quiet."

The universe rippled again--and what the _fuck_ she hadn't felt anything like that before, not in the millenia she'd been around, not on Earth _or_ in Hell. She left the room and locked the door, made sure her safehouse was secure, and then--

Waited. All she could fucking do was wait. She couldn't leave him alone to go track down any intel, she couldn't reach out from a distance because her messages might be intercepted--fuck.

She held her breath, waited for a third ripple, and--nothing. Whatever it was, it had fucking gone quiet.

And maybe she was just paranoid, 'cause she was fucking alone now, but that made her skin crawl even more.

_Fuck._

More complications, more fucking enemies--the last thing she fucking needed.

She didn't have a choice now. She had to ditch Nick somewhere. She just had to figure out how to do it safely, and leave herself open to come back for him.

Yeah. Good fucking luck with that.

Then again, she’d always been a survivor. And if this was the worst fucking setback she’d ever faced...well, she was up for the fucking challenge.

She kept telling herself that, over and over again, listening to Nick shivering in the room behind her, until she almost fucking believed it.


	4. Part 1, Chapter 3: Nick

**Nick**

 

Meg hadn't left, which was odd. She was usually in and out, never staying for more than a couple hours. Or she had been, anyway. Or at least he _thought_ she had been. He wasn't even entirely sure how long he'd been here. Time was hard.

A lot of things were hard.

But she was still _here,_ and she’d been getting more and more tense the longer she’d stayed. He could hear her pacing and muttering to herself sometimes, even if she didn’t bother with him very much, and he _knew_ that meant something important. He was sure about that much, at least, or at least he thought he was. It had gotten easier, especially over the last six months, for him to actually _process_ things he perceived, rather than interpreting everything as horror or pain and completely losing himself in it, or just shutting down. But still. It was hard.

Things _were_ easier than they had been. At first, it had been almost like he was still…he couldn’t move, at all, or speak, or anything. Just lie there, hurting, in the hospital. Even when the demon finally came to steal him, he could just barely blink and move his hands a little, at least on his own. Reflexes were there, he thought, but only reflexes. She’d had to drag him away. And, over the following months, he’d moved what little he could, as constantly as he could, whenever they weren’t watching, and slowly, bit by bit, more and more had come back to him. Still, even with all that effort, it was close to a year before he could walk at all--when he wasn’t chained to the wall, anyway; he almost always was when he was left alone.

Speech had come after that, but he avoided it as much as he could. Easier to retreat inside his head. Especially when they--

There had been pain. A lot of pain. Most of it from the…from what had happened to him, but some was…once he was at least a little functional, they’d tried to…well, he wasn’t actually sure _what_ they were trying to do, except that they needed to hurt him for it. Though, actually, that never seemed to happen when the lead demon--when Meg--was there. She tried to tease whatever it was out of him without more pain, only the _threat_ of it. And probably there was an ulterior motive there--he’d say definitely, especially after what she’d...what she’d done when she’d come back this time--but she had never actively hurt him. Not until then. That counted for something.

Besides, she was only a demon, and he _knew_ how demons worked. He didn’t like that he knew it, he certainly didn’t like _how_ he knew it, but it was like…instinct. He’d toyed with the idea of trying to escape, once he could walk a little, but there had been too many of them at first, and they’d…for all the pain they’d caused, he knew they could have done worse. And they’d kept him alive, even if he wasn’t completely sure he wanted that--but cooperating with them was easier than trying to figure that part out. Besides, even though he _knew_ how to escape from them, he knew he wouldn’t have gotten far, and who’s to say whatever he landed in wouldn’t be _worse?_

Who’s to say he wouldn’t end up with _angels?_

So he’d stayed, and slowly regained movement, and slowly learned to cope with the pain, and slowly began to speak.

And then, about six months ago--maybe, he thought, he wasn’t totally sure, but that felt right--it was like a switch had flipped, and everything _worked_ again. The pain was still there, and he’d long since accepted that it always would be, but he could move--he could _move,_ almost exactly like a normal person. It was almost as if, after a year and a half of trying to mount stairs as tall as he was, he’d somehow stumbled onto an express elevator. It got easier to focus. It got easier to manage the pain. It got easier to handle what the demons did, when they got bored or decided to try to extract whatever it was they wanted from him again.

It had even made it possible to tolerate what…what she’d done when she came back.

He didn’t know why, and he didn’t like that he didn’t knew why, but he’d suddenly gotten _better._

And he wasn’t exactly sure whether he liked that it had happened at _all,_ but he figured that, until he knew the how and the why of it, he could try to ignore that question.

But now, Meg was still here. She’d stayed with him for days, and all the rest of the demons were gone, and something had clearly changed, set her off-balance, and a part of him thought--maybe. Maybe _now,_ he should try to run.

Except...she’d never been cruel, and she’d even protected him, to an extent, from what the others had done. And she’d been right, when she’d…she could have done what she’d done at any time, but she didn’t even do it when she _stole_ him. That counted for something. And there was still the lingering fear that anywhere he might run to would be worse.

And at least there hadn't been any more...incidents, like when she'd first come back to stay, after the...after what she had done, when the world had tilted and it _hadn’t_ been something wrong inside him. It had all been external. Though that incident--or maybe what she had done, it was hard to tell, it had all happened so fast--had had an oddly clarifying effect on him. It wasn’t quite the sudden spike in good days he'd gotten six months before, but it had definitely been _something._ Still, it was easier for him to retreat behind a wall of silence, watching and waiting and discreetly flexing his hands to make sure he could still move them. And she let him. She would bring him food, but otherwise seemed to ignore him completely. At least while he was conscious, anyway.

He just wished he knew why she’d stayed so long. It didn’t make sense, and that probably meant something was going to change, some new awful thing was going to happen.

Sure enough, on the eighth day (he thought) after everything had rattled all around him, Meg came back into his room, carrying a handful of zipties and a black canvas bag. “Moving day, baby,” she said. “This place isn’t fucking secure anymore.”

_Not_ good. He backed away from her a little and hit the wall--he was chained to it, anyway, of course, around one ankle, but at least his hands were free, and he could see. He didn’t want any more restraints. He needed to be able to move, and see, and…

“Are you going to behave for me, or not?” she said, exasperated. “Because I’m not gonna hurt you, baby, like I said, but I _will_ fucking drug you if it gets your ass out of here without complaining.”

…drugs were worse than zipties.

Obediently, he held out his wrists for her, trying not to shake too hard. He focused on his ring instead, on the one thing he tried to hold on to in the dark--the best of his life, the reminder that he _could_ make choices, even good ones. However…however bad the end had been…his ring was his untainted, _warm_ light.

She slid the tie around his wrists and tightened it enough that he couldn’t easily escape, but not quite enough to dig into his skin. He shivered a little when she brushed against his scars, and for a minute the world whited out around the edges and he tasted blood.

When he came to himself, the bag was over his head, the chain was off his leg, and she was dragging him toward the door.

He stumbled after her--if he resisted, she would _drug_ him--and she shoved him into a car, not bothering with any kind of seatbelt for either of them before slamming on the gas.

She said nothing, and he clung to his own policy of silence. He could turn his hands in the ziptie just enough to twist his ring around his finger, so he focused on that. Calm, repetitive motion, grounding him just enough that being blind and restrained didn’t make him want to vomit.

After a while--he couldn’t track how long, but it felt like at least an hour--she screeched to a stop. She hesitated a moment, fiddling with the keys and maybe handcuffs or more zipties-- _oh, God, please, no_ \--before muttering, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” under her breath and dragging him out of the car.

She pulled him into a building that echoed--it had a stone floor, and smelled like dust--and used more zitpies-- _no, please_ \--to secure him to the wall. “Behave, baby,” she said. “Not a move, not a fucking sound. Got it?”

He nodded, then flinched, expecting her to count that, but no drugs, no pain, just her footsteps moving away.

The car door opened and closed outside, twice, and then Meg came back and dropped something--or maybe several somethings, or maybe a bag of somethings--on the floor. She was quiet for a minute after that, and then he smelled--he didn’t know exactly what. Something strong, and warm, and woody.

From the depths of somewhere inside him he couldn’t name, he pulled _myrrh._

He shivered, glad he was restrained with zipties and not handcuffs, which would have made noise, and broken her rules, and then there would be drugs.

Meg lit a match, and muttered something he couldn’t quite catch. He heard something ignite, and then he knew there was a third person in the room with them.

That third person sighed. “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I’m not going to fight your war for you.” He was male, with a faint, vaguely familiar accent, and he was _definitely_ not human.

Of course, he had sort of known that from the start, but that voice…

“I know that,” she said. “I’m not here to fucking ask you to fight.”

“Then what?”

“I need a favor.”

“I won’t shelter you, Azazel’s daughter,” the other voice said, faintly amused. “Like I said. I’m not fighting your war for you.”

He _knew_ that name, and shivered again.

“I can fucking protect myself,” she snapped.

“Then what’s the favor?”

For a moment, she was silent. “I have an asset I need you to hide for me.”

“An asset.”

_Oh._

She was abandoning him. Okay. Okay. He could--that wasn’t--he wished he could just _see_ this other entity, figure out how much… _she_ had never hurt him, but the people she’d _left_ him with had.

“What kind of asset?”

Another pause, then she took a deep breath. “I have Nick.”

“Ah,” the other sighed. “I had a feeling. You’ve won me a bet, thank you.”

“I don’t fucking care,” she said. “Will you hide him for me or not?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, amiably. “Or, correction, I won’t do it for _you,_ Azazel’s daughter. But I will secure him, out of--oh, call it vestigial affection for Himself, if you like.”

He swallowed and pressed as tight against the wall as he could without making noise. Going with this--whoever he was--seemed less and less safe by the second.

“Fine. Whatever. As long as fucking Crowley doesn’t get him.”

The other let that pass without comment. “He’s here, I assume?”

“I couldn’t exactly leave him fucking unguarded,” she said. “I’m not fucking stupid.”

“I never said you were,” he replied. “I’ll see to his safety, in a location no one can tie to either of us.”

“Wait--you're not going to keep him with you?”

“I told you, Azazel’s daughter,” he said, sounding amused again. “I have no interest in being drawn into your war--or Heaven’s, for that matter.”

Heaven was at war? He didn’t…that sounded bad.

“And if I keep him with me, as you have, well, I’ll suddenly become a very attractive fellow to visit.”

“Fucking coward.”

“I’ve never denied it,” he replied calmly. “Are you giving him to me or not?”

She sighed. “I don’t really have a fucking backup plan,” she muttered.

“I’d imagine not,” the other said dryly. “Let me out?”

He heard metal scrape on stone, and the male--demon, he must be a demon, he had to be referring to a Devil’s Trap--murmured, “Thank you.”

He heard their footsteps approaching, and then Meg sawed through the ziptie holding him to the wall.

“All yours, Tesriel,” she said. And _that_ name was familiar, too, and he shivered again, backing against the wall as best he could.

Another pair of hands grasped his, not tightly but iron-hard, and he got the sensation that the male demon gave the female a slight bow. “My pleasure.”

She started to walk away.

“Before you go,” the demon--Tesriel--called after her.

“What?”

“A word of advice, Azazel’s daughter, and free of charge--I know the war you fight, and I know how you loathe Crowley. But it would be unwise to focus on him to the exclusion of all else.”

“Heaven’s wrapped up in their own fucking problems,” Meg said. “They’re not gonna bother me unless I poke ‘em with a fucking stick.”

“I wasn’t speaking of the Host. What do you know about Leviathan?”

That spoke to something at his core, something of teeth and black ichor and a wary respect, the kind you give a two-ton tiger that’s eyeing you and considering its next meal.

“Nothing,” Meg said, slow and careful. “Why?”

“Well, keep an eye out,” Tesriel said pleasantly. “Rumor has it they walk the Earth, and they are fiendishly difficult to kill. And, my dear, they will eat you alive if they find you.”

Meg mulled that over for a minute, then said, “Thanks for the tip,” and left the room.

Tesriel shifted his grip on his hands. “Relax, Vessel,” he said. “Few people of sense would risk harming you, and I am certainly not one of them. Kindly brace yourself for transport.”

He swallowed and didn’t respond, and the world lurched around them, a sickening feeling that probably came from demonic teleportation.

When he steadied, the ties on his wrists were gone and the bag had been pulled off of his head. He was dusted faintly with sulfur, standing in an alley in an unfamiliar city, with a full moon over his head. Tesriel was gone.

He was alone.

Shivering a little--not from cold, it was a warm, late-summer night--he found a corner to hide in, toying with his ring and trying to process everything that had happened.

He was _alone._

And there were monsters in the world--monsters that made even the part of him that discounted demons wary--and God alone knew what was actively hunting him.

He shivered, and curled tighter, and clung to his ring, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now.


	5. Part 1, Chapter 4: Claire

**Claire**

 

It had been a long, long three years since Claire Novak's possession.

The first few days had passed in kind of a blur--they'd gone back to the house to grab absolute necessities, then Mom had piled her into the car and they'd just _gone._ And Mom had had nightmares, and Claire had just...the world had seemed so _small,_ and she'd felt so tiny and fragile and vulnerable and _limited_ and it didn't actually seem _real,_ okay, that Daddy was--

She tried not to think about Daddy too much. They both did.

Mom didn't sleep much, at first. Claire could hear her whimpering at night, which probably meant that she hadn't been sleeping much herself, either. Might explain the fuzziness. But they used that as an excuse to take turns staying up with a baseball bat--or, once they did some research, a bottle of holy water and a can of salt--watching the door, making sure the other one stayed safe.

They kept hearing angels on their tails, smelling sulfur, feeling bursts of unnatural light. So they kept moving, trying to stay ahead.

And then things just...well, no one ever _found_ them, so the panic became more controlled. Claire started to feel hollow, and empty, and...sort of… _drifty,_ rather than scared. Angry, too, yeah, she was angry about a lot of it. But the anger was hard, because she didn't know _who_ she was angry at, other than these _things_ had hurt her and her mom and taken her daddy away and _someone_ had to pay. That was Rightness. That was freaking _Justice._

Except then she got scared again--not of the things chasing them, exactly, but of those thoughts beating in the back of her mind. That this wasn't _right,_ that there was a horrible injustice done here and why wasn't she _fixing_ it? It was her _duty_ to fix it, to redress that wrong, to make things right and just in the world again. And she’d _never_ been that bloody-minded before, not until...

After the first year, she was pretty sure that thought came from the angel. From Castiel.

Because that's what angels were, wasn't it? Soldiers, _Infinite_ Soldiers, of God and Heaven and Rightness.

Or it was what they were _supposed_ to be, anyway. It hadn't really turned out that way, not for her and her family. She and Mom spent sleepless, terrified nights on the run, and Daddy was...

She prayed, at first, that Daddy was okay. Sometimes to God, sometimes asking Castiel by name. No one ever answered, and she sort of figured that _was_ her answer.

And then that made her angry again, it made her want to go out and--

Well, _smite_ something.

But after that first year, she was able to sort of...talk herself out of it. Well, more like redirect it. Less 'punish the wicked' and more 'protect the innocents.' So, whenever she and Mom stopped for more than a day or two, she would find volunteer work. It wasn't easy, at first, 'cause most places that filled the hole Castiel had left inside her didn't want to work with a fourteen-year-old, but she managed. And when they weren't still enough, she would research. Better wards, better safeguards, better ways to protect herself and her mom, and what was left of _their_ innocence.

That was around when she’d cut off all her hair, in a fit of pique, or out of spite, or--or maybe just as a way to distance herself from the naive little girl she’d been, because she wasn’t anymore, couldn’t be, not after everything she’d seen and felt. And then she’d dyed it bright blue, a blue that reminded her of her angel, because that naive little girl was still a part of her. And, clearly, in some way, so was Castiel.

And she'd gotten older, and volunteer work had gotten easier to find, and she'd been...she'd _coped._ And if parts of her were still frustrated, still unfulfilled, still hollow, still felt she was being too damn passive when there was so much _evil_ in this world...

Well, it didn't keep her up at night anymore. Not the anger, not the need.

And time had passed, another year, and they stopped feeling eyes on them all the time. It had been ages since either she or Mom had smelled sulfur on the wind. They'd stopped for longer and longer periods. Mom had even rented a house. Claire was able to get a steady, reliable volunteer position--and, since she'd just turned sixteen, she didn't even have to lie to do it. They were finally starting to feel safe, and those feelings were finally starting to fade-- _really_ fade--when…

_“We all saw him. No beard, no robe. He was young, and...and sexy. He had a raincoat…”_

The thing was, she'd had all of this--the itch to go out and _save_ people, to be that Infinite Soldier of Right--under control for a long time. Ever since she'd been...well, not the _whole_ time since she'd been possessed; it had taken a month or two of being on the run for the shock to fade and then, of course, there had been the rage, but still. That was a long time. And all of that had been under control, until now, when Castiel had suddenly gone off the deep end, taking Daddy along with him. And he'd slaughtered all those people--and, make no mistake, they'd deserved it--but...

But even if it was totally something an Infinite Soldier of Righteousness should do...

Claire had managed to convince herself she should be _saving_ people. And the urge had, since those news reports, become unbearable all over again.

So, she put in more hours at the shelter, as many as she could talk them into giving her. And it wasn't smiting demons, like an increasingly-big part of her still sort of wanted to, but it _was_ saving people. And, to be honest, her bloodline had done enough smiting lately. This was a much, _much_ better way to scratch her itch.

Later, if she had still believed in God as any kind of active, benevolent force in the universe, she would have said that He had led her to this particular shelter, to this particular volunteer position, to her new infinitely right crusade.

She was volunteering there when she met Nick.

At first, he didn't stick out much. He wore gloves, and his hair was sort of shaggy, all uneven and disheveled, and he kept his head down, which was almost enough to hide his scars until she looked close. He was super-twitchy, especially when anyone was close enough for physical contact. He never spoke, not that she could hear.

So, for a few days, she just sort of kept an eye out for him. There was something about him that felt...well, she just felt like she should. She wasn't sure if it was a combined effect of the scars, the silence, and the twitching, or another newly-discovered leftover instinct from Castiel, but...well, it was there.

And then, a week after the first time she saw him, she met his eyes.

They were a cool, shadowy grey-blue, like the ocean in winter, full of haunted hollows and unknowable secrets. Like hers, they were empty, with only traces of the infinity they used to hold.

They were a vessel's eyes.

He was an ex-vessel, like her.

"Oh!"

He let out a soft breath, recognizing the same thing in her. Recognizing their kinship.

"He let you go."

He nodded.

"You're free."

He shivered, and nodded again.

"Me, too." She took a deep breath. "My name's Claire."

"Nick," he whispered, voice rusty from disuse. "I'm Nick."

She smiled for him, as brightly as she could manage. "I'm finished with my shift in like a half hour. Can we talk after?"

He hesitated for a second, then nodded.

"Great!"

The rest of her shift passed in a blur, and it wasn't until she was actually leaving that it occurred to her that Nick might have changed his mind. She hadn't seen him since their conversation, after all.

But--no, just like he'd said, he was waiting for her, trembling a little, hunched in on himself.

"Nick?" she said.

He jumped, and looked up at her.

"You waited."

He nodded.

"So, um..." Okay, now that she'd actually found another ex-vessel and actually gotten a chance to _talk_ to him, she didn't know where to start. "Um...want to go...I don't know, sit somewhere and talk?"

He hesitated half a second, then nodded.

"Great," she said.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, because...yeah, clearly he didn’t have much idea what to say or do, either. But there was a park close by, with a coffee stand (she got hot chocolate for herself; she mostly drank coffee in the morning or to annoy Mom), and it was nice out, if a little chilly--just starting to shade into fall and the sun was going down--and…

More silence, after they sat.

“You’re the...um, you’re the first other...I thought I was alone,” Claire finally said, after about ten minutes of staring at the trees.

He nodded. “I’ve...I’ve seen demon hosts, before. A couple, the last few days, but not...no one like us. No...no v-vessels.”

She blinked. “You can...you can do that? See it, just like...just like that?” Holy crap. Maybe that was something that came from being possessed for more than five minutes. Maybe that was something angels did, rewired your eyes and perceptions, and Castiel just hadn’t been there long enough.

Or maybe there was something else inside her that her angel had rewired, no matter how short a time it had been. Even if she couldn’t see that, she’d--well, she’d been drawn to Nick for a _reason,_ hadn’t she? She just didn’t know what it was yet.

She focused on that, trying to puzzle that out, rather than wondering what Daddy might see if he ever got free, if he ever looked at her again.

Nick was nodding. "I can...I can only tell after they're free, though," he said, twisting his ring and avoiding her eyes. "I don’t...I can’t see the demons when they’re still inside. I guess I can see the scars, or something.”

"That's..." Not incredible, she shouldn't say incredible, since it probably sucked, from his perspective, seeing those scars and knowing what they meant, but... "Have you ever tried to talk to any of them?"

He blinked, and glanced up at her briefly before dropping his eyes back to his ring. "What would I say?"

"Just...I don't know. Let them know they're not alone?"

He shook his head. "Doubt that'd go over too well. I don't think most...people like us, or like...people who lived through...I think they probably want to forget."

Claire stared down into her hot chocolate, considering. Maybe Nick was right--Mom never wanted to talk about her possession, except maybe that was just...not with Claire. Or maybe it was just that demons were different from angels. "I feel better, just knowing you're out there, too. Knowing someone else survived."

Nick was silent for another long moment. "Yeah. I get that."

She brightened. "So, it makes it better for you, too?"

"I don't..." He trailed off, twisting his ring again. "What do you want from me, Claire?"

"I want...I want us to help each other, you know, cope. And help other people, too. There's probably a lot of other...other people like us out there. We can help them. You can find them, and we...I want to _help_ people, Nick."

And then, all of a sudden, it was like everything fell into place. She'd been looking for a Cause, she realized. Some sort of Infinitely Right task to which she could apply all of her Infinite Soldier instincts and half-memories, and whatever the hell else Castiel had left written into her mind and soul, and...this was it. Finally, _this_ was it. Because someone had to look out for ex-vessels and former hosts, and hunters couldn't, and angels wouldn't, and...

She _needed_ this, she realized. Needed it like oxygen.

But Nick was shaking his head again. "I can...I can barely look after myself, Claire. How am I supposed to help anyone else?"

"Just...by being there. We'll take it one day at a time..."

"I _can't,_ Claire. You don't--you don't even know who--wh-who I was..."

"That doesn't matter," she insisted.

His hands were still shaking, and he was still fiddling with his ring, and he still wouldn't look at her. "It kind of does."

"No, it doesn't," she repeated, a little frustrated by how he refused to see. "What, were you possessed by freaking Lucifer or something?"

He flinched and looked down at his hands, shaking.

_Oh._ "Nick," she said, gently taking his hand.

He flinched again, almost but not quite jerking away.

"Nick, _it doesn't matter,_ " she said, quiet and firm. And as soon as she said it, she knew it was true--and why the hell _should_ it matter? She might not be able to see his scars--not the metaphorical ones, anyway--but she’d _been_ there. She _knew_ how angels got under your skin (literally), and the promises they made and sometimes kept, and...Nick was a good person. She might not be able to see his scars, but she could see _that,_ clear as day. He’d just made a bad choice--granted, a pretty epically bad one, but still--for what was probably a good reason, or it seemed like a good reason in the moment.

He jumped and actually looked directly at her. He was still shaking, and she felt so, so guilty for pushing him earlier.

"It doesn't matter who your angel was. Not to me. And it won't to my mom, and once we figure out a way to help everyone else, we'll make sure it doesn't matter to them, whenever you're ready to tell them. And we'll figure out how to keep anyone else from outing you like I did. I'm so sorry for that, by the way. I just--I was frustrated because I wanted you to see how _good_ this could be, how much we can help other people like us, and you don't have to worry so much about taking care of yourself because Mom and I will help and--" She cut herself off, and flushed. "And I'm babbling. You know you could have cut me off at any time."

"Sorry," he said, then dropped his eyes again. He twisted his ring once more, slowly this time, then said, "How can you...how can you be so optimistic about this?"

"Because I need to be," she said. "Because, for five minutes, three years ago, I was...I was _infinite._ And I can't...I can't shake this feeling, like I'm supposed to be something… _do_ something...something _more._ "

"Oh."

She cleared her throat and blinked up at the sky. "You don't...it isn't like that for you?" He shook his head, and she flushed, remembering. "I guess it wouldn't be..."

"I was...numb," he said quietly. "Or I tried to be, and at first it was...I thought it would be...be better, because anything had to be better than...but now...now it's like...everything I feel, it's too much. Everything...everything hurts. Like...like he exposed every...every nerve and I can't sh-shut it off, and I can’t fight through all of that to get to anything...anything..."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded, and took a shaky breath. "I've never...told anyone that."

"Who would you have told?"

He blinked, then nodded again, slowly. "I guess...I guess you're right. About...about helping each other."

She brightened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So you're in?"

He nodded. "But...but I can't...I'm not like you. I can't...I can't just walk up to people. Even if I can see the scars."

"That's okay," she said. "We'll figure out how to approach people later."

He looked relieved. "Okay."

"Okay. I'm gonna call Mom, so she can pick us up. Then we can work on details."

"...you're not springing me on her with no warning, are you?"

"Um." She flushed. "No, I texted her before we came here, so she knows I'm talking with another vessel."

"Okay." He still looked uneasy, but didn't object again.

She smiled at him, then pulled out her phone.

Mom picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Claire. Is everything going okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "It's actually...it's going really great. Um. Can you come pick us up? There's kind of a lot to talk about, and it's probably easier not to explain over the phone."

She didn't answer right away.

“Mom?” Claire tried.

“You’re sure about this? Whoever this other vessel is, you just met. Are you sure you can…?” Mom trailed, off, but Claire didn’t really need much help filling in the blank.

And, yeah, they _had_ just met, but some things don’t need much time to be sure. And Claire was sure about Nick. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure.”

Another brief silence, then Mom sighed. "All right. I'll be there in a few minutes, then we'll talk."

"Thanks, Mom," Claire said, then hung up quickly before she could change her mind.

Nick was half-watching her, uncertain, and she smiled at him again.

"Everything's gonna be okay, Nick," she said. "I promise you. You're not alone anymore."

He nodded once, and twisted his ring. "Okay."

"Okay," she said, then settled in to wait for Mom to come.


	6. Part 1, Chapter 5: Amelia

**Amelia**

 

Amelia sent Claire off on some pretext as soon as they got back to the house--she forgot the errand as soon as her daughter was out the door--so she could have a chance to talk privately with their new acquaintance. It was a little too early to say "friend," in her opinion, even though Claire had clearly already jumped there. She also wasn't entirely sold on her daughter's support group idea, for some reason she couldn't quite define.

Not because of Lucifer--as far as she was concerned, even the best of angels were monsters, and they knew instinctively how to manipulate and pressure the humans in their charge. His angel's identity didn't make it worse--or better, to be fair, but the main thing was, it didn't make it _worse._

She wasn't really sure why she didn't like the idea--like any of it. This was, at least in theory, exactly the kind of trauma that people formed support groups for. Just because she, personally, didn't ever want to talk about her possession, and feeling that oily, toxic smoke climbing out of her in bursts, trying to dig its claws in and stay, and the weight of the gun in her hands when--

_Focus._ She took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, and released it. What she needed to decide, first and foremost, was whether or not she was on board with "adopting," as Claire put it, Lucifer's former vessel. The rest could wait.

Claire's new project looked--well, lost. Somehow small, even though he wasn't, physically. Obviously, brutally broken, in more ways than she could probably name. He clearly needed help, there was no arguing with that part.

And he wore a wedding ring.

"You're married?" she asked.

He flinched, and looked down at his ring, twisting it. "I was."

"Your wife?"

"She...she died."

Amelia nodded. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged one shoulder, focusing on his ring.

"Do you have any kids?"

He nodded. "He...he died, too."

At that, the last of Amelia's serious reservations melted away. That must have been how Lucifer had gotten to him--it was how Castiel had gotten to Claire, and to Jimmy the second time.

More importantly, Nick hadn't abandoned everyone who loved him for an angel's half-kept promises.

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks," he whispered.

The silence between them stretched for a few minutes, then Amelia sighed. “I don’t know how much Claire told you.”

“Enough,” he said. “While we were...while we were waiting, she told me...who had possessed her. I didn’t...I didn’t ask for details.”

“They’re not pretty,” she said.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t...it’d surprise me if they ever were.”

“Yeah,” she said. The words hurt to say. They felt heavy and sharp and almost stuck in her throat. With effort, she forced them out. “I was...there was a demon involved.”

He blinked at her, and nodded. “I...yeah.”

“You can tell?” Claire had mentioned something like that, but she hadn’t really believed it, until… “Or did she tell you?”

He shook his head. “No. Just...I can tell.”

And he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t asked her any questions or volunteered anything or--he let her set the pace. He didn’t push at all. He didn’t even ask for what he obviously needed, or try to make excuses for the bad choice he’d made.

He’d lost everything, somewhere along the line, and she knew what that felt like, she _knew_ what it meant to have evil curl up inside you and have to somehow live with yourself and the consequences after. And she knew, even if she hated saying it, even if she hated _thinking_ about it, how much having someone there who _got_ it would have meant, while she and Claire were on the run.

“You can stay here,” Amelia said, her mind abruptly made up. She’d back Claire’s plan--all of it. Adopting Nick, the support group...everything. “At least for a while, until you figure out where to go next.”

He nodded. “Thanks,” he said again.

She almost asked if there was anyone she could contact for him--any other family, besides his dead wife and dead child--but...well, it had probably been a long time, years, based on what she and Claire had been able to pick up about the Apocalypse. Reaching out wasn’t going to be easy, if he even wanted to. And he didn’t look at all stable enough for that.

So, all she said was, “You’re welcome,” and then retreated into sad, slightly uncomfortable silence, waiting for Claire to come home.

 


	7. Part 1, Chapter 6: Amelia

 

**Amelia**

 

Nick had been staying with them for three weeks, and Amelia hadn't found any reason to regret letting Claire keep him. Most of the time, he was quiet--he had night terrors, bad enough that he'd woken up screaming almost every night, but, well, she could hardly blame him for that. After all, she had her own nightmares, if nowhere near as frequent anymore (and, as much as her daughter tried to pretend she was still a perfectly well-adjusted sixteen-year-old, so did Claire), so she understood, at least a little. And she could invest in earplugs, if he stayed.

But other than that, he was quiet. He barely spoke, even to Claire, and he hadn't spoken to Amelia at all since she'd asked about his wife and son. He flinched away from contact, and she couldn't quite tell if that was fear or if he was genuinely in pain. Her guess, though, was that it was some combination of the two. Despite all that, he clearly made an effort to try and contribute, seeking little ways to make himself useful without exacerbating his own problems. He didn't always find them, but he got points for trying.

After watching him for three weeks, though, she had no earthly idea how he'd managed to survive alone until Claire found him. True, a good two-thirds of his waking hours, he functioned reasonably well. But for the rest...

He had moments, all-too-frequent moments, where something upset him enough that he just _stopped._ Claire could usually talk him back, but sometimes not for hours after he shut down. And then there were the times when he sort of spaced out, just quietly moving by inches, no matter how tired he was, or in how much pain. He just seemed to need the reassurance that he still could.

And then he would pass out for a while, and have nightmares, and wake up screaming.

If he stayed, Amelia thought she might try to talk him into trying Tai Chi. It would provide a little more structure for his reassurance-games. And it was supposed to be meditative, which might help stabilize him in its own way, just a little. Yeah, suggesting that would be a good idea. If he stayed, and if he got a little more comfortable around her.

There were a lot of ifs in her life these days.

Still, there weren't as many as there used to be, thank God. Things _had_ gotten better lately. It was only recently that she and Claire had felt safe enough to settle--far from Pontiac and anyone who might recognize them, of course, but at least it was _something._ Amelia had been able to find a job and a small grey townhouse to rent. They had a _home_ again, one they'd heavily secured with salt and all the warding Claire half-remembered, or they'd been able to research and verify.

Nick had, once he'd joined them, actually corrected and redrawn half the wards and added a few more; one of the concrete ways he _had_ been able to help. Amelia guessed that, conscious or otherwise, he had a lot more of that type of buried knowledge than Claire did. Of course, that made perfect sense--given how long he'd been possessed...

It made her wonder, for a moment, what Jimmy might have buried in _his_ mind, if he ever got out again. Not that she thought he ever would. Not after so long. And, especially after all those news reports, wishing for it would be cruel, for all of them.

Better to let herself believe he was dead and try to move on with her life.

Of course, as much as Nick helped with the warding, and as much as he needed _their_ help, Amelia had to admit that he probably had an even bigger target on his back than Jimmy had ever had. Taking him in might mean sacrificing all her hard-won, long-awaited stability.

But they'd cross that bridge if they came to it. She wasn't about to kick him out. Not unless he gave her actual cause, beyond making a stupid decision when he was grieving and maybe having dangerous things still after him as a result. _That_ would be cruel.

Claire wandered into the kitchen to join them, heading straight for the coffee maker. She'd gotten into the habit while they'd been on the run, but now that they were stable...

"One cup, Claire," she said. Her daughter was sixteen, and God knew high schoolers lived on Starbucks these days, but she would limit caffeine consumption as much as she could.

She rolled her eyes, got her coffee--adding about half a cup of sugar to it--and joined them at the table. "So, I've been thinking," she said licking her spoon and setting it aside.

"About?" Amelia prompted, when she stopped there.

"Support," she said, her eyes flicking over to Nick.

He looked down into his own coffee and said nothing, toying with his wedding ring.

"I can handle all the approaches," Claire assured him. "All you have to do is tell me who to talk to."

He let out a breath, visibly relaxing. He looked up at her and nodded once, trying for a shadow of a smile.

She smiled back, encouraging. "We'll figure out ways for you to look around without getting closer than you're comfortable with. It may take some trial and error, but I think--"

"Whatever you two decide," Amelia cut in, "however you two want to work it out--Claire, you'll have to fit it in around school."

She choked a little on another sip of coffee. "Wait, what?"

"School," she repeated.

"But Mom--"

"No buts," she said. "You're going to finish high school, now that we've settled, Claire. That's final."

"But _Mom,_ " Claire insisted. "This is _so_ much more important!" She turned to Nick, eyes wide and pleading. Amelia groaned internally. That look wasn't easy to resist, and Nick probably felt like he owed Claire on top of that.

But he shifted uncomfortably and stared down into his coffee, mumbling something about not getting involved.

_Good,_ Amelia thought. "After high school, you can decide if this is more important than college, and I'll back your choice. But you _will_ finish high school."

Claire bit her lip, and put on a sullen, mulish expression that meant she was in no way done arguing this. Amelia knew _that_ expression, too, even better than the first. "What if I homeschooled?" she tried.

Amelia shook her head. "Claire, don't you want to have a normal life again?" It was all she wanted for her daughter, potential complications of Nick's presence here notwithstanding.

She shrugged. "I mean, yeah, sure, but this is _way_ more important than that. I don't need a normal social life the way...the way people need this."

She studied her for a moment. "You're really...you're that serious about this."

Claire sighed explosively, the way only a teenager annoyed with her parent could manage. " _Yes,_ Mom."

Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Even if I agreed with you, I don't think it would work. I can't do it, I need to work. So unless you're comfortable bringing a total stranger in here..."

"But I wouldn't have to," she said. "Nick can teach me."

He gave her a quick, sharp look that couldn't have said 'stop dragging me into this' any more clearly if he'd actually used words.

"You were a teacher before, weren't you?" she asked.

He blinked. "I...how did...?"

"There's books," she said. "Telling...telling the Apocalypse story. But they're all super-anonymous, I promise. I just reread the one about...um, anyway, they never give your last name, or where you were living. No one can use them to find you. I promise."

"Oh." He looked like he didn't quite know how to feel about that, and Amelia couldn't blame him. She still didn't really understand why Claire had read them all, but it was Claire's choice in the end.

But she could worry about that later. If this was what Claire wanted...she sighed, and looked over at Nick. "Is that true?"

He nodded, staring down at his ring again. "Yeah, I, uh...I taught high school history."

"See?" Claire said. "So, that's all settled, right? Can we please get back to the _important_ things?"

"This _is_ important, Claire," she said.

Claire just rolled her eyes and again looked to Nick for support.

_God, please let him keep this from becoming a habit._

He studiously avoided her eyes, which Amelia appreciated. Even if he agreed with Claire, at least he wasn't going to back the teenager against her mother.

"Would you be okay with this?" she asked Nick. Because Claire did make an at least semi-reasonable point, and if this was what she wanted...

As long as she got her diploma, and it didn't make things harder on the rest of them, Amelia could live with this plan.

He blinked, and considered for a minute before nodding. "Yeah. I mean...yeah, if you are."

"All right," she finally caved. "I'll figure out the paperwork."

"Okay, then," Claire said. "Can we _please_ get back on topic?"

Amelia sighed, but she didn't really want to argue this point any more. She'd gotten--well, not what she wanted, exactly, but an acceptable compromise. "All right. Your support group."

"Anyway, however we figure out approaching people, I was thinking most of the actual support and talking part should probably be online," she said, looking over at Nick. "More anonymous, plus it gives survivors we can't find ourselves a better chance of finding us, if they try to look."

Nick nodded, but Amelia shook her head. "Wouldn't that also make it easier for a-a demon to find it? A physical room can be warded, but a virtual one..."

Claire deflated a little. "Yeah, I guess..."

"We can...maybe we can have sort of layers?" Nick suggested after a moment. "A public part of the forum, and then more secure inner rooms, once we're sure we're not dealing with...w-with that?"

She brightened again. "Yeah! That could work. And maybe..." She frowned, biting her lower lip thoughtfully.

"What are you thinking?" Amelia prompted.

"I'd...we'd probably need someone who knows what they're doing, but...maybe we _can_ ward a virtual room. Like...I dunno. Nick, do you think we could build warding into the site itself somehow? You're better at that stuff than I am."

He blinked, then shivered, twisting his wedding ring anxiously. "I...I don't know. But...maybe. Probably. I don't know exactly...I d-don't know how they work exactly, I don't..."

"It's okay," she said, hastily. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...sorry. Maybe just painting them on the background for the login page or whatever might work. It's a place to start, anyway."

"Okay," he said, then drew in a deep breath, tightening his grip on his coffee mug.

Maybe heat was another thing that helped him. He reached for warmth almost as often as for his wedding ring, when he was stressed. Amelia made a mental note to find a way to ask him. When he could look her in the eye and speak directly to her without being prompted by a question.

And, more to the point, despite her misgivings, Amelia was starting to think that Claire's online idea might actually be the best option after all. And the extra layer of anonymity, if they could balance it with the survivors' safety effectively, was definitely a good thing.

Except for one thing.

"If you want to try to figure out how to build wards into the site, you'll need someone who knows what they're doing, setting one up. And they'll have to be trustworthy. Until you build your network, how are you going to find someone like that?"

Claire thought for a moment. "There...may be someone I can ask. She knows angels and demons and stuff are real. And she knows how this kind of site works."

"And you trust her?"

"She...um, she's kind of intense," she said slowly. "But, yeah, I think we can."

"What do you mean by intense?" Nick asked.

"She's...well, she's read all those books I was telling you about," Claire hedged. "I can handle talking to her, you won't have to. Don’t worry about it."

He nodded. "Okay."

"And once we have the site set up, I also thought we could start looking for other survivors," she said. "We can track demon activity through news reports. Angels are harder, but if you keep your eyes open, you can find them, right?"

Nick nodded, then hesitated. "A-also I can...maybe I could try to...being a vessel is a genetic trait, right? And...and bloodlines can be traced, if you’re...if y-you’re thorough and patient enough to dig through old records. I think I might be able to find the lines. So...so we at least know where to look."

Amelia blinked. She hadn't even thought of that possibility, but it was a damn good idea. "You might even be able to warn people ahead of time. So if...they'll at least be making an informed decision."

"If they believe us," he said softly.

She nodded. "If they believe you."

"Still, it's worth trying," Claire said, and Nick didn't disagree.

A warning might have made all the difference--though, to be fair, that was speaking with 20/20 hindsight. She probably wouldn’t have believed someone like Nick or Claire any more than she’d believed Jimmy, if she hadn’t already lived through it.

“It is,” she agreed, then hesitated. “I don’t...I think I’ll leave all of that to you two, mostly.” Not that she hadn’t made that clear otherwise--or at least she thought she had--but it was probably better to be explicit.

“That’s fine,” Claire said. “Be as involved as you want to be. But...maybe once we find other hosts, and they join the forum…”

“Maybe,” she said, then stood up. “I’ll let you two work out the rest of the details.” She had to head to work, anyway.

“All right,” she said. “Be safe, Mom.”

She smiled a little. “I will. Call me if you leave the lines.”

“Always do.”

She left the kitchen, Nick and Claire quietly resuming their conversation behind her, and, with a certain amount of relief she wished she could share with her daughter, got ready to step back into the normal world, if only for a day.


	8. Part 1, Chapter 7: Sam

**Sam**

 

Sam couldn't actually remember how he'd gotten here. There was a time when that would have freaked him the fuck out, but he'd been greying out on the edges a lot since Dean--since Dick. He was sort of used to it by now. And all he'd been doing was zoning out on the Internet anyways, since the motel didn't have anything for him to do and Amelia wasn't off work for another couple hours, so it wasn't like his lack of focus actually mattered anymore.

So, he was just web surfing or whatever, when he found himself suddenly forced to pay attention.

"Tenebamus Infinitum" was at the top of the page--Latin, 'We Held Infinity.' There were sub-forums for Rules, Vessels, Hosts, and Off-Topic.

Vessels.

That couldn't _possibly_ mean what he thought it did.

Except...the background of the page was a soft, almost faded blue, with faint lines in a pattern that somehow read _safe_ to him. And when he tilted his laptop at just the right angle, so the light hit it _just_ right, the lines formed Enochian sigils. They formed _wards._

He hesitated for a second, then decided to dig a little deeper, figure out what the hell this was. He started with the Rules forum--five posts; Rules, FAQ, Mod Questions, Tech Issues, and How to Register.

Under Rules he found:

 

    1. Please pay attention to all sub-forum definitions. This is a safe space for all possession survivors. Keep adult topics in their designated spaces.
    2. In that vein, sexism/racism/etc will not be tolerated.
    3. Outside the designated, password-protected areas, please do not share your real name or your possessing entity's name, if known, and please do not share any information of that kind you may know about other members at all without their express permission.
    4. Everyone copes in their own way. Please do not tell anyone they're doing it wrong unless specifically asked for advice/assistance.
    5. Violating any of these rules will result in first a warning, second a three-day ban, and then a permanent ban.
    6. Depending on the severity of the violation, the mods reserve the right to ban on the first or second offense.
    7. These rules are subject to change as necessary.
    8. Above all, remember that we're all here for the same reason--because we need a community of people like us. Be kind to one another, and don't hesitate to ask the mods if you have any questions.



 

  
Sam stared at the screen for a long time. It didn't seem _possible,_ but somehow it looked legit. He moved onto the FAQ, more and more convinced the more he read.

Two questions stuck out at him.

 

Q: Why do we keep our names out of it?  
A: Well, with regard to us as hosts/vessels, it's for privacy purposes. Not everyone is comfortable with their name being associated with possession, even in a protected space. For our possessing entities, sometimes it's hard to know which of them have history. Using their names might accidentally trigger unpleasant memories. Since some people do need to face things more directly, with all names attached, we have designated spaces where you can share that information, but for people who aren't prepared to cope with it, the main forum should be kept safe.

Q: Why do we call them ‘our angel’ or ‘our demon?’  
A: The short answer is--not everyone does. The longer answer is--the mods happen to prefer it, as a way of reclaiming what their possessing entities took from them, or reasserting their control over their minds and bodies. Or, put another way, it reminds them they _have_ power over their own bodies, and the possessing entity was a guest, whether or not it was welcome. That’s why that particular phrasing is used in the FAQ, etc., but it is definitely not required. Whatever way of discussing the demon/angel is easiest for you, absolutely use that. But that’s the theory, anyway, behind ‘my demon’ or ‘my angel.’

 

Digging through the actual forums--what he could get to, anyway; a lot of it was locked, members only--confirmed his suspicions.

Someone, for some reason, had set up some kind of...some kind of online support group for possessed people.

Okay. He should close out of this now. He was walking away from the life, going to be totally normal. He couldn't do it--couldn't cope with any of it, not without--

Riot whined at him, and he stroked the top of his head with a shaking hand.

He couldn't cope with any of it. Not anymore. Not by himself. Except...

On the other hand, it might be...not nice, but...well, he could have someone to talk to, about the things in the dark. Someone to talk to about things he couldn't even talk to...

"Okay," he said, then ruffled Riot one more time and clicked on the How to Register link.


	9. Part 1, Chapter 8: Sam

**Sam**

 

It had been nearly six months since Sam had found the forum, and he found himself spending pretty much all his time, when he wasn’t with Amelia or working, on there. He didn’t say much--definitely didn’t start any threads--but just reading about other people’s experiences was…

It made him grateful that, for a while at least, he’d been able to save them. Maybe even one of the people here was someone he’d exorcised, years ago, but he had no way of knowing without asking, and that wasn’t really a discussion he wanted to have anyway. Still, just the possibility made him feel at least a little better.

The forum had a private messaging system, too, and he’d somehow managed to get involved in a long string of conversations with one of the mods. He hadn’t given his real name, and his screenname (N68128S) didn’t give much away, but Sam found him surprisingly easy to talk to. He was one of the other ex-vessels, and just as private about things as Sam was. If not more.

Sam had actually told N who he was pretty early on, not long after the two of them had started PMing each other regularly a few weeks after he'd joined the forum. At first, like N, he'd done his best to keep his identity quiet--if anyone was likely to accidentally awaken another survivor's repressed memories, it was him. But it had felt weird, talking about things in vague terms. And then N had mentioned his pet project--mapping all of the vessel lines, with the end goal of no one saying yes unprepared. It was the excuse Sam had needed to open up a little more, and even if N hadn't shared his own real name--or his angel's name--it had been a lot easier for Sam without his secrets between them. And N was a little more open on private messaging, sharing a few non-identifying details about his possession, and his recovery from it. Learning how to be a person again, he called it.

"It goes up and down, even now," N was saying.

"Yeah?"

"I've been free for close to four years. And there are still days when I have to spend hours moving my fingers, one by one, just to remind myself I still can."

"Even after four years?"

"Yeah. I do Tai Chi sometimes, that works a little better."  
"More structured, I guess."

It had been about that long for him, too. Sort of. For his body, anyway. The Cage didn't really count. Sam didn't have exactly the same need to verify, not that he’d noticed, anyway, but he definitely knew where it came from. "Half the time, my own reflexes make me nervous," he admitted. "Which is stupid, because I know it's my body doing automatic things like it's freaking supposed to, but at the same time..."

"It's out of your control."

"Yeah." And being out of control, even when it was a completely natural, ordinary, _human_ lack of control...most days, it didn’t bother him. But sometimes...

N was quiet for a moment, then said, "I used to try to control my breathing and heartbeat."

Sam blinked. "Really? Did that help?"

"Not really. But I sort of thought that, if I could, things would start making sense again. And the world would be less overwhelming. If I could just get a handle on that, just that one simple thing, it would be easier to cope with the rest. And it was a distraction from the pain, sometimes."

"Pain?" he asked. That seemed sort of odd. None of the other ex-vessels on the forum talked about pain. At least, not the kind of pain Sam thought N was alluding to. Some of them--the ones who had been possessed for six months or more, mostly--talked about a weird sort of pain-like phenomenon, as if their bodies had forgotten how to heal themselves properly after spending a while with an angel automatically patching everything up, so everything hurt more than it should, and took a little bit longer to heal. But Sam had a feeling that wasn't quite what N meant. And as for his own experiences...well, he knew he was a special case in at least two ways, so he wasn't exactly a reliable standard.

"I was in a bad place," N replied, "especially for the first year and a half or so after my angel left me. Then I started having good days once in a while."

"Oh."

“It got better, after that, but sometimes I feel like it’ll all slip away again. And the pain never really left, just got a little easier to handle.”

"I didn’t really have that much pain, not like you’re talking about, but there were some I guess side effects? That I haven’t really seen anyone else mention,” Sam said, then pushed send before he could stop himself.

He’d never really been able to talk about this part with anyone--at first, too busy just keeping a lid on it, and then in the hospital, no one had really believed him about the cause.

“What kind of side effects?” N asked.

Sam took a deep breath, and admitted, “I had hallucinations, for a long time.”  
Then he followed with, "Not right away, not until all of me was back from Hell, but...."

"What kind of hallucinations?" N asked, after a heart-wrenching pause of nearly a minute.

"Lucifer," Sam said. "Mostly him, anyway. There were other things, but it was like he was in total control of what I saw."

"God, I'm sorry."

"Usually he just looked like the other guy he possessed, but he would use other faces sometimes. Mostly Dean."

It was almost three full minutes before N replied. "I wish I knew what to say, other than I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Sam said, then started to change the subject, when his phone beeped at him--which was weird as all hell, because no one should be texting him. Not now that Amelia’s husband was alive and he was trying to back away from her.

"Give me a sec," he told N, then checked the message.

It was from _Dean._

Dean, who had been dead for a year.

"Where the hell are you? You're not answering your phones."

Hands shaking a little, he texted back. "Dean?"

"Who else would I be? Meet me at Rufus' cabin, as soon as you can get there."

"OK," Sam replied.

After a few minutes of staring at his phone, he had the presence of mind to get back to N. "I have to go," he said. "Dean's back."

"You're sure it's him?"

"Yeah. I think. I'll see when I get there."

“All right. Be safe.”

“I will. Thanks.”

He shut the computer down before he could say anything else, checked the text again to make _sure_ it was real, then scrambled to get everything together, and said a quick goodbye to Riot, before sneaking out to the car and driving north as fast as he could.


	10. Part 1, Chapter 9: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

Dean was off doing, quote, "grown-up personal crap," Sam had done all the digging he could on Kevin for the moment, he'd checked in on Amelia more than he should have, he'd fiddled with the motel room appliances as much as they could take...

So he was tense, and a little bit lonely, and just...wanted to talk to someone. He decided to go to the forum--he hadn't been in a while, couldn't go with Dean living in his pocket again. He had logged in once, after the auction, to let N know that text really had been from his brother, Dean really was back, and ask him to keep an eye out for Linda and Kevin. Since Linda had been possessed, however briefly, and that was N's area of expertise. But they hadn't talked since then.

He booted up his laptop and dug up the forum link, which he'd deleted from his favorites and history as soon as Dean got back.

Which, now that he was actually going back and thinking about it, made him squirm faintly with guilt. Dean knew more or less everything about Amelia, but Sam hadn't mentioned the forum to him even once. And granted, there was a reason for that--the forum was for possession survivors, and Dean had never been possessed--but if he was keeping secrets, he probably shouldn't bite Dean's head off for doing the same thing. His reasons were probably just as good as Sam's.

Yeah, he'd apologize for that when Dean got back from wherever he'd run off to.

But, for now, the forum was loaded and, thankfully, N was logged in, too.

He shot him a quick message. "Hey, can you talk?"

Less than a minute later, N responded, "Of course. Bad day?"

"Sort of. Not angel stuff, fought with Dean."

"That sucks, I'm sorry," N replied.

On impulse, he started, "Hey, so, I know this is sudden and maybe kind of weird, but are you anywhere near the Enid, Oregon area?" He hit send before he could change his mind.

N took almost a full minute to reply. "Why?"

"I thought maybe we could get together. Have coffee or something." He almost added "like normal people," but fortunately, since he was typing instead of talking, he was able to stop himself, and this time he actually did. Bad idea to push too far, especially since he wasn’t totally sure just _asking_ for a face-to-face meeting like that wasn’t already overdoing things.

Another brief silence from N. Just when Sam was about to try to backtrack, N replied with, "That would probably be a bad idea, sorry."

He knew he shouldn't push, should just apologize and move on, but he was curious now. "How come?"

N replied quicker this time. "You have history with my angel."

Okay, fine. But, on the other hand, “I have history with a lot of angels.”

“Not like this.”

"But we're still friends, right? Despite all of that?" he pressed. And, yeah, that was kind of a dick move to pull. He knew that. But at the same time, he _needed_ the rest of the answer now; he couldn’t just leave it at that, after that first bombshell. N knowing pretty much everything about him without sharing his own story hadn’t really bothered Sam until now, but if they intersected somehow...besides, whatever that shared history was, N hadn’t had any issue with it until now, so it couldn’t possibly be that bad. So, yeah, Sam never should have opened this door, he knew that, but now that he had, he couldn’t bring himself to close it without learning the whole story.

"Of course," N replied, without hesitation. "That doesn't mean that meeting up is a good idea."

"Because I have history with your angel."

"Yes."

"What kind of history?"

N took several minutes to answer. "He possessed you, too."

Well.

Okay.

That...that possibility hadn't even _occurred_ to Sam, even after what...he'd thought--Gabriel's vessel, or Zachariah's, or one of Raphael's, maybe. Maybe even Adam, somehow, but never...never...

"Sam?" N-- _Nick_ \--had sent.  
"Are you still there?"  
"I'm sorry, I was going to tell you eventually, I swear, I just couldn't find the words."  
"Sam?"

"You're still alive?" he finally asked, then kicked himself as soon as he hit send, because _really_ that should not have been his first response.

"Don't ask me how," Nick sent back. "I woke up in a hospital after. I have vague memories of sirens, but..."

"I'm sorry," Sam replied. "I would have gone looking for you if I'd known."

Well, as soon as he got his soul back, he would have, anyway.

"So, that's one theory down," Nick said.

"What?"

"Never mind. Just something the demon said."

"What demon?"

"The one who took me from the hospital," he said.

"So...wait, you thought I knew you were out there and just abandoned you or something?"

"I didn't know what to think," Nick said.  
Then, before Sam could respond, he added, "I wouldn't say abandoned, though. You're not responsible for saving me, Sam."

_Bullshit._ He'd let Lucifer out in the first place. Of course he was responsible for fixing whatever the angel had done to Nick.

But he dropped it--he didn't really want to argue guilt with Nick, not right now. Or have the same fight he’d been having with Dean for weeks with someone else. "I’m sorry I pushed you, before," he said instead.

"It's okay," Nick replied. "I should have told you sooner."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said.  
Then, remembering the last time he saw Nick's face, he added, "But you're probably right, meeting in person wouldn't be a good idea." He pressed on his scar, even though he hadn't seen Lucifer in a long time. Just in case.

"Yeah. I'm sorry," Nick said, then,  
"We're still friends, right?"

"Of course."

Though, now that Sam thought about it, maybe it wasn't so surprising after all. Nick had dropped hints before tonight--vague ones, but still. Now that he knew, it all made perfect sense. "I guess you really meant it, earlier, when you were talking about pain. Not just the absence of healing thing."

"Yeah," he said. "It's better now, sort of. Or maybe I'm just used to it, I don't know."

"Right," Sam said, then hesitated. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask Nick, most of which would be...well, "rude" would be the understatement of the millennium. And he’d already been enough of a dick. So he settled for, "Do you remember anything?"

"Do you?"

"I remember everything."

"Oh. I'm sorry."  
Nick was quiet for a few seconds, then went on. "I don't. Or, nothing specific, anyway. Not really. A couple things, I guess, but mostly just sort of vague impressions of what he thought about things. And pain, I remember a lot of pain."

"Right," he replied. "I can imagine." It was all too easy to remember how Nick had been literally falling apart at the seams that whole year.

"I actually almost told you then," Nick admitted. "When I told you about being in a bad place for a while. The pain thing was sort of a test balloon, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But then you told me about your hallucinations, about seeing him with my face, and..."  
"I couldn't just...it was important to me that, when I finally told you, it didn't get too..."  
"I needed it to go well."

He couldn’t really say much to that, other than something inane about how it seemed to be going well, at least as far as he could tell, so he just blurted out the first tangent that came to mind. "So...I guess you and I are probably related, then?" Sam asked. And...okay, yeah, it was kind of a stupid question, and...what the hell, why was _that_ the first thing he asked? Or...okay, second. Third. Whatever.

On the other hand, being a vessel was a genetic trait, and at least Michael and Lucifer required very specific bloodlines. Logic said Nick wouldn't have lasted even as long as he had, demon blood or no demon blood, if they weren't.

"Yeah," Nick said, after a minute. "We're third cousins, twice removed. Sorry, I had to look up the exact numbers. That's actually part of why I started researching vessel lines. I was curious where we intersected."

"Right," Sam said.  
"So, are you tied to Michael's line, too, or...?"

"No. As far as I've been able to track, I'm only the one line."  
A few seconds later, he added, "You're not just Lucifer and Michael, though."

He blinked. "I'm not?"

"You're Gabriel's line, too," Nick answered. "And I'm pretty sure Raphael's, but I haven't found proof yet. Or, anyway, it would really surprise me if I don't, once I finish mapping his line."

“Huh,” Sam said out loud, then typed, “Is that normal? To be more than one line?”

“I haven’t found many,” Nick said. “And you’re the only four-line convergence I’ve found so far. Possible four-line convergence, anyway. I do know of one other three-line convergence for sure, and I’ve found maybe four two-line convergences?”

“How many lines are there, exactly?” Now that they were getting into it, this was sort of cool to learn about. In a weird, almost masochistic way.

“Thirteen. One for each choir, one for each Archangel. And there’s stronger and weaker branches of each line, so I don’t know exactly how many families there are that descend from one. Every so often, I find a new one.”

Before he could respond to that, his phone rang. “Hang on, phone.”

And Dean, on the other end of the line, pushed all his curiosity about the vessel lines _way_ the hell off his radar. Because, apparently, “grown up, personal crap” meant _a freaking vampire nest._

“I have to go. Dean’s in trouble.”

He shut down without waiting for Nick to respond and pelted out the door, swearing and looking for a likely car to steal.


	11. Part 1, Chapter 10: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

Things had been going really well for them, the past few months. Nick was even willing to join her out in the field sometimes, though he still made her do most of the talking.

Having him with her had even saved her at least once. It had been one of the rare times when they got to a host before they were freed, and the demon had paused for a split second when it saw her uncle. As uncomfortable as the moment of recognition had made Nick, it had still bought her the time she needed to stun and then exorcise it--she had a modified taser she’d designed to work on demons just for that purpose. And then they'd saved the host together, and the solid win--or as solid as any win in this ever could be--had seemed to help.

But this time--another of those rare contacts with bad timing--this time, the demon hadn't hesitated when it saw Nick.

It had attacked.

And then Claire had fired her taser.

And _missed._

The twenty seconds it took the taser to recharge were some of the longest of her life. Nick went down quietly, so quietly, he didn’t scream or anything, and there was blood, Nick's blood, bright in the sunlight, and he was scared of blood, but she couldn't do anything to help him, and then--

"Get down!" someone behind her yelled.

On instinct, she trusted the voice and dropped flat. She barely had time to realize that might not have been the smartest move she could have made, when a stream of water hit the demon. It started screaming and smoking and backed off of Nick.

And she had a clear shot and her taser was ready again.

She got a solid hit, and spat the exorcism as fast as she could while still enunciating clearly. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

The smoke dissipated around the host. Claire didn't need to check for a pulse to see they were too late; her eyes were wide, blank and staring, and a thin trickle of blood was trailing out of one ear.

More important, for the moment, was Nick. He was bleeding heavily from his right shoulder, staring down at his bloody hand with the blank expression he got sometimes, when he was deep in one of his memories.

From behind her, a short, skinny guy with a scraggly beard, a beat-up trucker hat, and a Super Soaker filled with what must have been holy water picked his way over to Nick.

"Don't touch him," she said. "You'll just hurt him. When he's triggered, all he feels is pain."

Trucker Hat did stop, but he frowned at her. "He's bleeding pretty bad," he said.

"I know. Look, I got this--can you check the host, see if she's got an ID or something?" Even if they couldn't save her, hopefully they could at least give her family some peace. "I'll try and calm him down so we can deal with the bleeding."

Trucker Hat nodded, and went over to the dead host. He had the courtesy--or respect--to close her eyes before he started digging through her pockets. Unusual for a hunter.

Claire liked him already.

She knelt next to Nick, trying to position herself so he could see her. "Hey. Hey, you're okay, you're safe, you're free. You've been free for four and a half years. It's me, Claire, I'm here, if you'll just come back to me, I can prove it..."

She kept going, cycling through those facts as many times as she had to, keeping her voice light and steady, a thread for him to follow back to the present. Shocking him back by yelling worked, too, sometimes, and she’d done it before once or twice, when they’d needed to move fast, but this way was much, much better in the long run.

After about five minutes of her litany, Nick blinked hazily up at her. "Sorry..."

"It's okay," she said, and smiled.

"...I'm cold," he said, and she knew him well enough to detect the fear there.

"Because you're bleeding, that’s all," she assured him. Because blood scared him, but there were things that scared him more. "Look, I'll prove it." She took out her pocket knife, cut open her palm, and sketched and activated a banishing sigil.

He slumped, visibly relieved. "Thanks."

"Of course."

Before she could ask about cleaning up his shoulder, Nick finally seemed to notice they weren't alone, and blinked at Trucker Hat. "Hi," he said, wary.

"He helped us with the demon," Claire informed him. "He's--sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Garth," he said, tipping his hat. "Garth Fitzgerald IV."

"I'm Claire," she said.

"Nick," he added quietly. "The host...?"

Claire shook her head. "Dead. Probably for a long time."

He nodded, and closed his eyes.

"Uh," Garth said, "it looks like you're still bleeding pretty bad. I could clean that up for you, if you want."

Nick shivered a little. "Okay."

"Do you want me to do it?" Claire asked.

He hesitated, opened his eyes briefly to glance at Garth, then said, "Please?"

"Of course." Claire got up and went to the car to get their first aid kit. Hopefully, he wouldn't need stitches. She _hated_ stitching Nick up.

But, naturally, since today apparently didn't already suck enough, the demon had gouged him deep--three gashes, like clawmarks.

"Sorry," she breathed.

He gave a flicker of a smile without opening his eyes.

"If you don't mind me saying," Garth said, "you two seem a little over your heads here..."

"She was supposed to be free," Nick said quietly. "We didn't expect her to still be possessed."

"We need to verify our tips better in the future," Claire said grimly. They’d known as soon as Nick saw her, of course, and the scars weren’t there, but by then it was too late.

He just nodded.

"So, you go out looking for people who've been possessed?" Garth asked, obviously interested.

"Yeah," Claire said. "Hosts and vessels both. We try to help them cope."

"That's amazing," Garth said.

"Yeah, when we get to them in time, anyway," she said, with a brief glance at the host's body.

Garth bowed his head, then hesitated. "You know," he said, "I run a network of hunters. I could tip you off when we've exorcised someone. Might make your work a little safer, at least."

Claire considered that, while she stitched Nick's shoulder back together, willing the flesh to hold. "Yeah, that could work." At least some of the time. They'd follow their own leads, too, but she wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to help more people.

"Thanks," Nick added.

“No problem,” Garth said cheerfully, then offered Nick a hand up after Claire finished wrapping a bandage around his shoulder.

He hesitated only for a half second before accepting--which, given the day they’d had, was pretty damn impressive.

“What...uh, what happens now?” Nick asked, looking over at the host’s body with shadowed eyes.

“With her?” Garth asked, and he nodded. “Well, normally I’d call in an anonymous tip to the police--she didn’t have a wallet, Claire, I looked. No ID.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“But...uh...your blood’s kind of everywhere--” Nick flinched, and twisted his ring, but managed not to shut down again, thank God. “--so I have to clean up some first. And give you guys some time to get out of town.”

Claire winced, but nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. Uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” he said. “Are you gonna throw up any red flags, Nick? I can try and run interference with the locals.”

He blinked. “I don’t...I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, don’t you worry about it,” Garth said. “Anything comes up, I’ll handle it.”

“Thank...thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “Oh, before you guys go, Claire, can I get your number?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” She read it off to him, and he pulled out his own phone and sent her a quick text so she’d have his. It was a smiley face. She couldn’t help but grin a little in response. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be in touch, if I got anywhere to send you,” Garth promised.

“Thanks,” she said again. “And good luck.”

“You too.”

She took Nick’s hand and gently led him away.

When they were out of earshot, he asked again, “What now?”

“...maybe we should just head home,” she said. “At least until your shoulder heals.”

He hesitated a moment. “There’s...there’s a line in Texas. It’s not that far.”

She blinked. “You sure you’re up to that?”

He nodded, without hesitating. “Yeah, I think I am. And I think I need a win…”

She thought back to the dead host’s empty eyes, and shivered. “Yeah, okay. I’ll let Mom know. Where in Texas?”

“Kermit,” he answered. “The line’s in Kermit.”

“Got it.” She sent Mom a quick text, with the promise of a phone call later for details, and from there it was less than an hour before they were on the road.


	12. Part 1, Chapter 11: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

The two of them had a routine, when they settled into a motel room for a few days. For all Nick had only been going out into the field with Claire for a couple months, they had it down to an exact science. As soon as they checked in, one of them (this time, Claire had done it, because Nick was hurt) would draw and activate a banishing sigil, then Claire would lay down salt lines while Nick taped up angel wards. He was better at gauging cardinal directions and putting the symbols at exact compass points than she was, and she was better at finding all the vents and cracks that a demon could slip through. The whole process took less than ten minutes. And double-checking everything when they came back--like now, after making first contact with the vessel line that had brought them here in the first place--was even faster.

"All good?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, dropping onto one of the beds with a faint sigh.

"Shoulder?" she asked. The stitches were mostly holding this time, but he'd been in a lot of pain and had bled a little off and on.

He shook his head. "No, just tired. No more bleeding, at least not today."

She nodded. "Good. That's good. Can I take a look anyway?"

"Sure," he said, then carefully took off his jacket.

Like he'd said, the bandage wasn't bloody this time, at least. So he was already doing worlds better than the last time he'd needed stitches, when it was almost as if his skin wasn't strong enough to hold them, like the sutures just tore right through.

That had been a fun week for all of them. And that had just come from a stupid accident--he'd slipped and fallen. This time, he'd actually been attacked.

As gently as she could, Claire peeled off the bandage. His shoulder was still ugly-bruised and puffy, but the stitches were holding. "No blood," she assured him. "But it's still pretty swollen."

"Yeah, I figured," he said.

She cleaned and then rewrapped his shoulder. "Okay, all set for now."

"Thanks." He shivered a little, then rubbed at the back of his neck with his good hand.

"Something wrong?" she asked. That wasn't one of his _usual_ tics, but it still caught her eye. Especially because he shivered first. She got up without waiting for him to answer, checking to see if there was an individual thermostat in this place she could punch up just a little.

"No," he said, slowly, drawing the word out to three or four syllables. "Not...not exactly."

No thermostat. Damn. "Yeah?" she asked, turning back to him.

He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "I don't...I don't know. It's hard to describe."

"Okay." She went back to her bed and sat on the edge, crossing her legs. "Bad hard to describe or good?"

Another moment of hesitation. "Neutral, I think? I don't feel...unsafe, not more than usual. But it's not..." He rubbed at his neck again. "It's like my brain itches, or something. I don't know."

"Huh." She frowned. "And you've never...?"

He shook his head. "No. Never. But it's been happening, off and on, since we got here."

Weird. Definitely. But...well, he'd said he didn't feel threatened. And usually his instincts had been pretty on point for that sort of thing, at least in her experience.

...of course, that left the possibility that this was something completely _out_ of their collective experience. He picked up on demons faster than she did, and there were those possession-scars or whatever that he could see and she couldn't. What if he was detecting something else? Something he didn't recognize enough to perceive as a threat, but...

Or, worse, what if this was how he felt _angels?_ They weren't _supposed_ to be threatening--even though they absolutely 100% were--so maybe he wouldn't...

Shit.

"Claire?" Nick asked.

She jumped. "Sorry, thinking. Want me to walk around, see if I see anything weird?"

He didn't ask what she was thinking about, at least. He usually didn't, usually just waited for her to explain if she wanted. Which she had no intention of doing in this case; it would only freak him out.

He thought for a minute, considering her offer, then shook his head. "I don't feel threatened," he said. "Just...weird. Tingly might be better than itchy, I don't know."

"Like your leg fell asleep?"

"Sort of."

"Okay," she said. "I guess...let me know if it changes?"

"I will," he said.

They dropped the subject then. Claire settled in to check her taser and other defensive supplies, while Nick curled up on his bed, digging out some of his in-progress family trees to work on. After about an hour of that kind of quiet, separate work, Claire's phone rang and he jumped about a mile.

"Just my phone," she said. "Sorry, I forgot to put it on vibrate."

"Who is it?"

"...huh. Garth." She accepted the call. "Hello?"

"Hi, Claire," he said. "How's it going? How's Nick's shoulder? Healing okay?"

"Yeah, he's doing good. What's up with you?"

"Well, remember how I said I'd drop you a line if anyone told me about a successful exorcism?"

"Oh, yeah?" She blinked and sat up a little straighter, groping for her notepad. Nick nudged it towards her, and she mouthed "thanks" before focusing back on her call. "You've got something for us?"

"Yep! Nice old lady in Nebraska. I called you as soon as my friend told me the demon was all taken care of. You guys anywhere in range?"

Not really. Not that it mattered. "We'll do what we can. Thanks, Garth."

"Any time," he said. "I'll go ahead and text you specifics. Tell Nick I said I hope he feels better."

"I will. Bye."

"See you."

She hung up and tossed her notebook aside--she hadn't needed it after all. She made sure her phone was on vibrate this time and set it down to wait for Garth's text.

"He has something for us?" Nick asked.

"Yeah. Host, up in Nebraska." Her phone buzzed, with the name and address, just like Garth had promised.

Nick nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Claire said. "So...how do we want to work this?"

Nick hesitated. "We shouldn't wait. No way of knowing how long this'll take, and we should get to the host as soon as we can..."

"Yeah. But we've already made contact with the line," she pointed out. "We can't ditch them now."

"...we could split up," he said, after a moment's thought.

"No," she said, immediately. He was still hurt, and he still froze up half the time when they talked to people, and she and Mom had never left him alone for more than a day. This was a _bad_ idea.

"It's the only way to get to both, unless you think your mom would go," he replied. "I wouldn't...look, I wouldn't bring it up if I didn't think I could handle it, Claire."

She still didn't like the idea of Nick being by himself for some indefinite period, and she wasn't quite sure why. He'd been doing well--only one shutdown in the last eight weeks, and that when there was blood on his hands so there was a specific, obvious trigger--his shoulder was actually healing right, if slowly, the wards on their room were excellent...

She just had a feeling this wasn't a good idea. But there was no real reason for it, and he was making all kinds of sense. She was probably just being paranoid, overprotective. She did that sometimes, with Nick.

"You're really, totally, _absolutely_ sure about this?"

"I am," he said, and smiled a little. "Go. Deal with the host, I can talk the vessel family through the rest."

She sighed. "Okay. I'll hitchhike up there. You can finish here, then drive back home. We'll meet there, okay?"

"Okay."

"And call me. Or text. _Every day._ Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay," she said again.

It only took a few minutes to get the stuff she'd need together, and then, after getting one more promise to stay in constant contact out of her uncle, she was out the door.


	13. Part 1, Chapter 12: Dean

**Dean**

 

Dean had left Sam sulking in a motel room in Texas, and--sure, his brother had a point about it being kind of a shitty way to sideline him, and if he could do it over again, he'd pick someone other than Sam's ex--Jody, maybe, or someone--but, then again, Amelia was the only friend of Sam's he knew of who wasn't also _his_ friend so it would have been harder to justify staying behind himself and--

Okay, total honesty time, both of them had handled this like crap. They hadn't had a fight like this since frigging Ilchester--okay, maybe the Amy mess counted--and the car felt creepily empty without his little brother crowded into the passenger seat.

When he came across the hitchhiker, he was busy rifling through his tapes, trying to pick something to fill the silence. He looked up just in time to realize he was about to freaking hit her.

"Jesus fuck!" he yelped, slamming on the brakes with barely two inches to spare.

She was college age--maybe twenty at the oldest--with short, shaggy hair dyed bright blue and a bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. She scrambled back to avoid the car, which probably helped prevent the accident.

"Fuck, you okay, kid?"

"Yeah," she said.

Okay, good. Though why she'd been hitchhiking and put herself that close to being in range of actually getting _hit…_

Crap. Chances were, knowing his luck, she was something nasty. Probably not a ghost or a vampire--not in broad daylight like this--but...well, Sam had met Meg when she was hitchhiking forever ago, hadn't he?

Of course, if she _was_ a demon, he could probably handle her. He had the knife, the car was warded to Hell and back and, to be honest, he sort of welcomed the chance to blow off a little steam. And if, on the other hand, she actually _was_ just some dumbass kid hitching through nowhere, Texas...well, he could give her a hand and the car might seem a little less empty for a minute.

"Need a ride?" he asked, making sure the knife was accessible. Just in case.

"I dunno," she said, shifting her backpack to her other shoulder. "You have a habit of almost running people over?"

"Let's just say I owe you for that," he said.

She smiled a little. "Then, yeah, I need a ride."

There was something that nagged at the back of his brain about her, something weirdly familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. And _that_ couldn't possibly be good news. Hell, she might even actually _be_ Meg again. They hadn't seen her since icing Dick, after all. Of course, Meg would probably have freaking announced herself by now, so maybe not.

Only one way to find out.

He leaned over and opened the door for her. "I'll take you at least as far as the next town."

"Thanks," she said, sliding in and dumping her bag at her feet.

He pulled back out into the road, and they continued on for a few miles in silence. He glanced over at her once in a while--she hadn't reacted to any of the wards, but most of them were passive anyway, and there was something so damn _familiar_ about her. It bothered him. A lot.

But, now that he thought about it, the familiarity was completely physical. Something about the curve of her jawline, or the shape of her eyes, or the way they were the same blue as her hair, or--

"Uh, you're kinda staring," she pointed out. "Maybe you should watch the road, instead?"

And then it hit him. Where he'd seen those eyes before.

"Claire?" he guessed. "Claire _Novak?_ "

"So you do remember me," she said.

"Yeah." On the very long list of people he'd met briefly on hunts that he thought he might run into again, Claire had never even come _up._ Not because she hadn't made an impression--there was something inherently creepy about Cas possessing a middle-schooler (holy _crap_ she was actually, like, _legal_ now had it really been that long)--but because... "God, I...I'm so, so sorry," he said.

She smiled. "Thanks, for what it's worth. But...y'know, you don't have to be. Even Mom's not really pissed at you any more."

"Oh. Uh, that's good." He shifted awkwardly. "How's she...how are you guys doing?"

"Mom's fine. She's home--we set up somewhere totally new like two years ago. We've stopped running, at least, so she's happier now."

"Good," he said. "So...wait, what are you doing hitchhiking through Texas, if you're settled now? Does your mom know you're here?"

...her name had been Amelia, too, he remembered with sudden clarity.

Claire just rolled her eyes. "Yes. Mom knows where I am and what I'm doing. I'm hitchhiking because we were tracking a vessel line when we heard about a recently-dispossessed host. I recognized your car and figured I'd be safe with you as long as I don't get possessed again. So I flagged you down."

It took Dean a few seconds to decide which part of that he should respond to first. "Wait, you jumped in front of my car on _purpose?_ "

"You were the one who wasn't paying attention," she pointed out. "And I didn't jump in front of your car, just stood a little closer to the edge than normal."

"That was _really_ stupid."

"I knew it was you," she said.

Well, that was one question answered--sort of--but that left... "What do you mean, as long as you don't get possessed again?"

Claire didn't answer right away, pulling a phone out of her backpack and fiddling with it for a minute instead. When she finally did respond, she did it without looking at him. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, 'cause I sort of know why your priorities changed, but...we hear a lot. Try to stay informed, you know, just in case...yeah. Anyway, you and Sam...you sort of have a reputation, these days? Like...you guys are, like, the ultimate badasses, but...well, almost in exchange for that...it's like you sort of...stopped caring. About hosts, and vessels, and...yeah."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but then he remembered Crowley possessing Linda Tran and...well, the kid had a point. "We don't have much choice," he finally said, hoping it didn't come out sounding too defensive. Because it wasn’t that they’d stopped caring--or, that _he_ hadn’t, anyway; he had no freaking clue what went on in Sam’s head most of the time, especially lately--it was just...they had to prioritize, that was all. And, these days, taking out the demon tended to be more important than saving the host. And it sucked, especially when the host was someone they knew, but...well, it was what it was.

"Like I said, I get it." She shifted a little. "Just means I'm not really safe around you if I'm possessed."

He didn't have anything to say to that, so they drove on in silence for a few minutes, finally interrupted when Claire's phone buzzed when she got a text. She rolled her eyes at it, tapped out a quick response, then put the phone away. "So...this got super awkward," she said. "Want to see my holy taser?"

"Your--you have a holy _taser?_ " Okay, the rest of the important--and awkward--questions could wait. That was something he _had_ to see.

"Yeah." She dug it out of her backpack. "Lasts longer than holy water, faster than a Devil's Trap, easier to carry around than a bag of salt, minimal damage to the host, paralyzes the demon long enough to rattle off an exorcism. If you talk fast, anyway. The downside is you only get one shot every twenty seconds."

"Dude, that's _awesome._ " Even if killing them was still more practical most of the time, a holy taser would at least make it easier to bind demons they needed to chat with first, when they didn't have time to set up in advance. "How's it work?"

"Salt in the leads," she said. "Plus a few other mods. You can take a closer look when we stop."

"Thanks," he said. _Definitely getting myself one of those._

Though, now that the new-toy excitement was wearing off, he found a problem with what she was saying.

"Wait, why do you need a--have you been _hunting?_ "

"Not exactly," she assured him. "Mostly we leave that to people who know what they're doing. But once in a while...I mean, we look for ex-hosts, help 'em cope. Sometimes we just...get there a little too soon. Besides, I like being able to defend myself. I don’t go looking for trouble, exactly, just try to clean up after, but there’s always a chance it might find me, you know?"

Okay, that wasn't quite so bad. He still didn't like it, but it could have been a lot worse. And after everything that had happened to her--and her mom--he couldn't really blame her for coming up with a really freaking useful weapon. To defend herself, if nothing else. "Right," he said. "So, that's what you and your mom do now? Wander around looking for possessed people? I thought you said you'd settled down."

"We did," she said. "Mom doesn't handle the contact part much. She does all the practical stuff. Like, you know, food, shelter...practical stuff."

"Then who's 'we'?" he asked.

She hesitated a second, then brushed her bangs out of her eyes and said, "Me and my uncle, mostly. So, what have you and Sam been up to lately?"

He winced a little. "The usual, mostly." He _really_ didn't want to get into the rest of it. "I didn't know you had an uncle."

She rolled her eyes. "The things you don't know about my family could fill a book. Maybe even a series. You know there's one about you?"

_Oh God._ He groaned. "They're still out there?" he asked, as much resigned as pissed.

"Yeah," she said. "The one with me in it is weird."

"The one with--wait, I thought they didn't get that far."

"The original set doesn't," she said. "But there's e-book versions of a bunch more. All the way up to the end of the Apocalypse."

" _Dammit,_ Chuck," he muttered.

"Who's Chuck?" Claire asked.

"Carver Edlund's a pen name. Guy's real name is Chuck Shurley," he said. "Chuck was a prophet. He turned his visions into crappy books about me and my brother. He _promised_ us he wouldn't publish the rest."

"That must suck," Claire said.

"Yeah, no kidding," he said. "Why'd you even read them, anyway?"

"Context," she said. "For what happened to me. And to fill in some gaps, about...about Daddy." She looked out the window. "It helped, a little."

"Oh," he said, a little uncomfortable. "I guess I never really thought about how other people in them would feel about it." _Didn't think anyone would actually_ appreciate _them._

She shrugged. "Hey, it's your life. I'd be pissed, too. There's a couple things in the bits about me I wish had been left out, and I'm only in like a third of one book. I totally see why you hate them."

Yeah, Dean had only skimmed one book, and it was _more_ than enough to make him want to burn them all. Nice to know that even someone who liked them--or at least thought they were useful--still realized they were fucking _creepy._

Of course, on the other hand, Claire sort of had a point. There _were_ important parts to the books. There were things in them that Sam and Dean didn't already know. Frigging _Becky_ had had to tell them Crowley had the Colt, after all. Maybe he _should_ read them, just in case.

...yeah, that wasn't actually gonna happen. No matter how useful they might be. "How'd you even find them?" he asked.

"Uh," she said, and flushed a little. "One of the books was actually in my school library, before I met you guys. _Mystery Spot._ I read it, and it was okay, but confusing, 'cause it was one of the last ones out at the time. Then Castiel...happened, and it...well, obviously then I knew it was all real. So I tracked down the rest of them."

"For context."

"Yep."

He couldn’t really argue with that--even if part of him still definitely wanted to. “Right.” He hesitated for a second, wondering if--Cas had asked for space, but… “Listen, about--”

“I think I know what you’re going to offer,” Claire cut him off. “And...thanks, but no. Not right now.”

“...okay.”

They drove on quietly for a few minutes, then she broke the silence. “Look, it’s not that I don’t...if he wants to reach out to me, I won’t...I’ll hear him out. But I don’t want you to set it up. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean said.

“It’s...it’s complicated, there’s a lot that goes into it, and it...it should be between us. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She sighed, and leaned against the window, staring out at the horizon and clearly closing herself off against further conversation.

He let her, at least for the moment, privately toying with the idea of telling Cas he’d run into Claire anyway. Because the guy at least deserved to know the kid would be willing to talk, if he’d thought about contacting her but shied away for that reason.

Next time they met up, maybe. He’d see how things were then, and decide.


	14. Part 1, Chapter 13: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

Sam waited a good half-hour after Dean stormed off, wanting to be sure his brother had actually left, then changed, planning to go out for a run. Hopefully, he could blow off some steam that way. Clear his head. Become, somehow, absolutely sure how he wanted to handle this whole mess. That he really wanted to totally walk away, totally cut himself off again, like at Stanford.

The freaking weird tingling at the back of his head wasn't exactly helping him think, either. Hopefully he could outrun it, or something.

That plan lasted until about halfway across the parking lot, when he spotted another room at the motel with salt lines on all the entrances. He couldn't, even if he was seriously contemplating walking away from the life, ignore something like that. Not when someone was probably in serious trouble.

He hesitated half a second, then jogged over and knocked on the door.

"Claire?" That was weird, the voice sounded vaguely familiar. "Did you--?"

The door swung open and the man behind it abruptly stopped.

Sam froze as well--he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to find behind those salt lines, but...

He knew this was real. He _knew_ this wasn't...wasn't...

He dug into the old scar on the heel of his hand again anyway, on instinct, knowing, _knowing_ it wasn't necessary, wouldn't work, wouldn't--he'd never come with _scars._

What finally cut through the instinctual blind panic, though, wasn't the scars--his or Nick's--but the visible, mirroring spark of fear in his eyes, and the way he backed up half a pace, clearly just as freaked as Sam was.

Sam cleared his throat and finally found his voice again. "I, uh...sorry, I saw the salt lines, and I couldn't...I didn't know it was you."

The other man nodded once, then took a deep breath and stepped aside, wordlessly inviting him in.

Sam hesitated for half a second--but, then, he was sure. He was.

Nick visibly relaxed when Sam joined him, and Sam could immediately see why--in addition to the salt lines, the motel room was covered with angel warding. Or, at least, he recognized about two thirds of the sigils taped up as that.

"Sorry," Nick said quietly. "I'm sort of paranoid."

"Can't say I blame you," he replied.

Nick went over to one of the beds and perched on the edge, fiddling with a ring he was wearing. The two of them stayed there, frozen in awkward silence for a few minutes. It was uncomfortable--if not all that surprising--that it was like this, despite the fact that they were friends, and had been talking online for a year--even if their last conversation had ended sort of abruptly. But, just like Nick had said, meeting face-to-face had been...well, this.

"So, uh," Sam finally said, "how are you doing?"

"I..." He trailed off, then shrugged one shoulder. "I have good days and bad days. Today's been pretty good."

"Good. That's...I'm glad to hear it."

"What about you?" Nick asked.

"I...I'm okay, I think. Fighting with Dean again."

"Want to talk about it?"

Sam hesitated for a moment. "Kind of? But not really. I don't know."

He nodded. "What are you doing here in Kermit?"

He winced. "I thought my ex was in trouble."

Nick flinched, and twisted his ring anxiously. "Is she okay?"

"She's..." _Married, and I'm hunting, and we're considering leaving all that for each other._ "She wasn't in trouble. I just...I was lied to. But she's okay. The important thing is she’s okay."

"Good. That's...that's good." He took a deep breath. "I'm glad she's okay." Thankfully, Nick didn't push any further.

"What about you?" he asked.

"Making contact with a vessel line," he said.

Sam nodded. "Do they...does anyone actually listen to you? I mean, it's a lot to take in, even if you already know about angels and demons and crap."

"Yeah, I remember," Nick said, with a faint, uncomfortable smile. "Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. The family here has been receptive, though."

"Huh," Sam said. "That's...that's good. I sort of figured most people just sort of...found it, like I did."

"A lot of survivors do," Nick said. "But some of them we track down. And the lines don't even know what to look for yet."

"Yeah, point." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "D'you think it helps? Knowing, I mean." It hadn't really helped him. True, he hadn't known about Lucifer specifically until the Archangel had told him, but he'd known the basics of angelic possession and consent going in. And Dean was a vessel, and he'd known about the bloodline thing since meeting the Novaks. So it wasn't much of a leap for him.

Nick twisted his ring slowly. "I need to believe it will. For some of them, at least."

"Would it have helped you?" Sam asked.

He looked up at him, and Sam realized that he'd come way too close to asking why he'd said yes.

"No," Nick said shortly, before he could apologize. “It wouldn't have mattered to me. Not then. And I don't think I would have believed the warning, anyway."

"Oh," Sam said. "I'm sorry."

Nick shrugged, then made a face.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"i'm fine," he said, then jumped about a mile when his phone buzzed. "Sorry," he said. "I'm usually better, at least when the ringer's off."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Who's calling?" From what Nick had told him, he kept to himself most of the time.

"Text," he clarified. "And, uh, my niece."

He blinked. "I didn't know you had a niece."

"She adopted me a couple years ago," he said. "Do you mind if I...?"

"No, go ahead."

Nick picked up the phone and checked the message. "...huh. Apparently, she's with your brother."

"Really? That's...a weird coincidence."

He shrugged and made a face again, then sent a quick reply.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam said. "You keep making a weird face."

"Hm? Oh. It's...I hurt my shoulder a few days ago. I keep forgetting until I move." His phone buzzed again. He shook his head and smiled faintly before setting it aside.

They fell silent again, long and awkward, stretching for several minutes before Sam cleared his throat and got up. “I’m gonna...I’m gonna go, leave you to...to your line.”

Nick nodded. “Okay.”

“Listen, if you need to--if you need to get in touch with me, for whatever reason…” He grabbed a pad of paper from the motel room’s table and scribbled down a couple of his numbers. “Try calling, or texting. I don’t...I haven’t been on the forum as much since Dean got back, so that’s...it’ll be faster to get ahold of me that way.”

“Okay,” Nick said again, hesitated for a breath, then wrote down his own number. “You can always call me if you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, tearing off the paper with Nick’s number. “I...I guess we’ll be in touch.”

“Yeah.”

Sam slipped out the door, definitely ready to go for a run, when--

There was someone knocking on his room’s door.

Not just any someone.

_Amelia._


	15. Part 1, Chapter 14: Karl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karl is the name given to Gadreel's primary vessel for the purposes of this fic.

 

**Karl**

 

Karl met a lot of weird people at work. Not as many as some people he knew; unlike a few of his friends' jobs, his bar wasn't a magnet for the _really_ off-the-wall types, but he got his share.

This guy, though, had to be one of the weirdest.

He didn't start out that way. He'd come in every night for a week, sitting in a dark corner by himself, fiddling with some sort of notebook. He didn't order much, but he tipped pretty damn well in proportion. Always paid cash. If he'd left it at that, Karl would probably have barely remembered him. Apart from some impressive scars (they looked almost like radiation burns or something), he was the boring kind of weird.

Until tonight, anyway.

The bar was dead--just Karl and the scarred man, sitting in his usual corner with a beer and his notebook, doodling and occasionally glancing up at him.

Karl smiled when he caught his eye--brief and professional. "Can I get you anything else?" he asked.

"No, I'm all right," he said, dropping his eyes back down to his notebook.

They sat there quietly for a few moments, Karl polishing the glassware as much for something to do with his hands as because it needed to be done.

After a while, he broke the silence again. "You new in town?"

The scarred man looked up briefly. "Hm?"

"Sorry," he said. "I've just noticed you in here a lot lately."

"Right," he said, giving a very brief, very faint smile and twisting his wedding ring. "No, I'm just passing through. I guess I am pretty memorable, though."

Karl blinked, then realized what he'd said, how it must have come across. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

The man in the corner gave another, slightly more relaxed, smile. "It's fine," he assured him.

"What happened?" Karl asked, after a moment's pause.

The scarred man looked away, twisting his ring again. "I...don't like to talk about it."

"Right, of course," Karl said. "Sorry again." Why the hell had he even _asked_ that? What the hell was wrong with him?

"It's fine," he said again, then hesitated, studying a page in his notebook.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

He took a deep breath. "Not really. Um. Can I ask you a question? It's...probably going to sound really weird."

Karl shrugged, and smiled at him. "I asked a really intrusive one already. Be as weird as you want."

He gave another one of those faint, flickering smiles in response, then asked, "Do you believe in angels?"

Karl blinked. Weird was right, but not as weird as he expected. Or not a bad kind of weird, anyway. "Uh. Sure."

The scarred man shook his head. "I don't mean in the abstract."

"You mean, like...wandering around on Earth, performing miracles and providing divine inspiration?"

He flinched and twisted his ring again. "Something like that."

"Right. Okay. Um. I never really thought about it," Karl said. "But...yeah, no, I don't think so."

The scarred man nodded and looked down at his notebook again. "Right. Okay."

"Why do you ask?" Karl asked, after a long, awkward silence.

He shivered. "I don't like to talk about it."

Great. So that was probably tied to however he'd gotten scarred. Which...if it had made him believe in angels, if it had made him seem almost _afraid_ of them...

Poor guy was obviously seriously screwed up. Karl wasn't quite sure if humoring him made it better or worse.

Finally, he just settled on saying, "I'm sorry. For whatever happened to you."

The scarred man looked up. "I'm not--" He broke off, and sighed. "Sorry. I'm not very good at this part. Usually Claire handles it."

"Claire?" he asked.

"My niece," he said. "Adopted niece."

"Uh...huh."

"She's better at--but that's not important. She's not here." He twisted his ring again, then took a deep breath. "Look, I just...I'm here because angels...they need specific bloodlines, for vessels. And you come from a vessel line. I...I track them."

This was starting to drift a little bit into the kind of weird Karl didn't want to deal with, even making allowances for trauma or whatever. "Um," he started, then stopped, no idea what exactly to say to that.

"And I'm doing this all wrong," he said. "I just...you don't have to believe me. Not now, at least. But if an angel _does_ come for you, in a lucid dream or whatever...believe it then. Ask questions. They’ll try to overwhelm you with...just...make sure you know what you're agreeing to before you say yes, okay?"

"...yeah, okay," Karl said. Because the scarred man didn't seem aggressive or dangerous, just...scared. And earnest. Weird as this was, and as much as Karl sort of regretted humoring him this far, as much as he wanted to gently end the conversation...well, it probably couldn't hurt to give him the answer he wanted.

"Okay," the scarred man said. "It might not happen, but I wanted...you shouldn't be blindsided by this. No one should. It sucks. And if it does happen..." He scribbled something down and left it on the table. "There's people who can help. Um. I'm gonna...I'm gonna go now."

Before Karl could respond, the scarred man dropped his cash on the table and fled the scene.

"That...was weird," he announced to the empty air. Like always, the scarred angel man had left a good tip. On the paper, he'd written a website and a phone number. Karl hesitated, debating tossing it--the guy was obviously crazy. Angels might or might not be real, but they definitely weren't wandering around stalking families and burning people all to hell.

Still, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He slid it into his pocket and turned to greet another customer who'd just walked in, putting it out of his mind for now.

He kept an eye out, though, for the next few nights, just in case. But the scarred man never came back. Still, he couldn't quite forget him and, no matter how much he didn't believe in angels, a part of him started to wonder.


	16. Part 2, Chapter 1: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

Claire flopped onto the motel room bed with a faint sigh. Garth had texted her six more times in the last month since they'd met, and while she was more than grateful for the opportunity to get more possession victims the support they needed, the travel was a bitch, and she hadn't actually seen Nick since they'd split up in Kermit, and she hadn't seen Mom in even _longer._

At least she was pretty close to home. She'd probably get in some time tomorrow. And she had been talking to Mom and Nick daily, so she knew they were all right.

Or...wait. She hadn't actually heard from Nick yet today. Or yesterday, for that matter.

"He's probably just busy," she said out loud, trying to convince herself. It didn't work.

So, she texted him. Because he _was_ okay, just...forgot or something. "Nick, u ok? Call me."

When he didn't reply after an hour, she called him.

Straight to voicemail.

"Okay. Okay, calm down. I'm overreacting."

Still didn't sound convincing.

_I_ knew _splitting up was a bad idea,_ she thought.

Especially since, after wrapping up in Kermit, he'd for some reason decided to go scout another line, one that had been not too far out of his way, in Oklahoma-- _that_ was what she should have talked him out of. She should have made him go home as soon as...

Or maybe she really was just being paranoid. Maybe he’d made it home and just...forgotten to tell her, or something. One way to find out.

"Hey, Claire," Mom said, picking up on the second ring. "You somewhere safe for the night?"

"Yeah, I'm at a motel in Springfield. You're doing okay?"

"Yes."

"Um. Have you heard from Nick?" Claire said. "'Cause I haven't since day before yesterday and he didn't text me back."

Mom was quiet for a few seconds. "He's not with you?"

_Oh, God._ "No. No, I--I haven't seen him since Kermit. Why'd you think...?"

She sucked in a breath. "Last I heard from him was yesterday morning. He said he was going to meet up with you."

And they hadn't actually _talked_ yesterday, just exchanged brief "all good here" check-in messages, so Mom must have assumed he'd gotten to her safe, and...

"Oh, God."

"Okay. I'll try calling him, and I'll check if he's been on the forum since then," Mom said, holding together the way she somehow always did until whatever crisis was past.

"Message Sam, too," Claire said.

"You think they're together?"

"No, but Nick said he got a weird tingly feeling when he ran into Sam in Texas. We were both pretty sure the two things are related, and if it works both ways..."

"Right," Mom said. "Good point. And you'll check with your contacts, see if anyone's heard from him?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So, let's do that, and I'll call you back at midnight to compare notes, okay?"

"Okay."

"We'll find him, Claire," she said. "I promise."

"Yeah. Okay. Talk to you at midnight, then." She hung up, then flipped through her contact list, trying to decide who would be safe to ask. Garth, of course, Garth actually _knew_ Nick, at least a little.

Dean--Dean _might_ have helped, but she hadn't actually gotten his number. And, come to think of it, even if she _had…_ well, she didn't know Dean well enough to be absolutely sure of how he'd react to Nick's face. Everything she _did_ know said he'd be cool about it after the initial shock, but...

Well, moot point. Besides, even if she'd had Dean's number, she didn't have Nick's okay.

She sent quick text messages to a few of the line contacts she knew Nick would be okay with, then called Garth.

"Hello?"

_Oh, thank God._ "Hey, Garth, it's Claire. You got a minute?"

"Sure do," he said. "Everything okay? You didn't have any problems with the host, did you? I exorcised him myself, I'm _sure_ the demon's way down deep now."

"No, the host was--I didn't have any trouble," she said. "But...just...I haven't heard from Nick in a few days, and he's usually real good about checking in, so...I just...have you heard from him?"

"Sorry, hon," he said, and he sounded sincere. "I haven't. Usually, I just talk to you. You want me to put the word out?"

Claire hesitated, considering. On the one hand, the more people there were looking for Nick, the faster they'd find him. On the other, if the wrong people found him--or even just overheard and learned he was alive and started hunting him...

"...he's...he was possessed by someone with a lot of ugly history," Claire finally temporized. "And I can't tell you more than that, not without his okay. But it might be safer for him if you don't."

"Got it," Garth said. "I'll keep it to myself. And I'll keep an eye out in the meantime, okay?"

"Thanks, Garth," she said. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem," he said. "Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"

"I will," she said. "I gotta go, check in with a couple other sources."

"'Course. Good luck."

"Thanks," she said, and hung up.

Responses to the rest of her inquiries trickled in over the next couple hours, all negative. She tried calling Nick about a half-dozen more times, leaving increasingly frantic messages, and hoping desperately for a response.

No joy.

By the time midnight rolled around and Mom called back, Claire was holding back tears by a heroic effort of will.

"Anything?" she said, answering halfway through the first ring.

"No," Mom answered. "But Sam hasn't gotten back to me. You?"

"Nothing," she said. "What...what do we do now?"

"We look," Mom said firmly. "Come home, and then we'll try to retrace where exactly he was going until we figure out when and where he disappeared."

"Okay," Claire said.

"We'll find him, sweetheart," she said. "I promise. And if it...if it takes a while...we'll take it one day at a time."

What Mom left unsaid--what didn't need to be said--was if it took them a while, he was probably in serious trouble. Probably he'd shut down somewhere, maybe even--

No. _No._ She was not going to go there. If he had...if he'd shut down again, someone had found him, gotten him somewhere safe. They just didn't know who his family was to contact them, that's all. Because he'd lost his wallet, with the fake ID she and Mom had had made for him. Things like that happened. And the people who'd found him were humans--ordinary, friendly humans. She _had_ to believe that.

And, more importantly, she had to pull herself together, because she could _not_ leave him alone like that. She shouldn't have left him alone in the first place, even if he'd been doing okay. She _knew_ better.

"Okay," she said. "I'll find another ride, get home as soon as I can."

"Be careful."

"Always am. I love you."

"Love you, too," Mom said, then hung up.

Claire took a deep breath to steady herself, then gathered up all of her things, and headed for the door.


	17. Part 2, Chapter 2: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

Nick woke up somewhere dark and cold. Or, at least, the wall he was up against felt cold, but it could just mean he was overheating again. Even now, sometimes it was hard to tell without someone else to check for him.

It _was_ dark, though. That much he was sure of. And he hurt, more than usual--sharp, slicing pain along his wrists and ankles, an insistent drumbeat in his head, and a new dull ache in his right shoulder. His hands were bound behind his back.

He tried to sit up and hissed faintly when the ties dug into his wrist. He felt something warm and wet trickle down his palm and shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to hold onto the present, trying to stay calm. He took as deep a breath as he could, hoping to forestall the panic, and found his mouth had been taped shut.

That didn't exactly help.

His eyes snapped open and he scrambled for purchase in his head, fighting the rising tide of blood and pain and panic. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe,_ could only scream inside his head and hope, desperately, for this to all be a dream, just another nightmare, not a re-entry into the inescapable hell he'd lived through; could only try to convince himself that _this_ was the dream, _this_ was the aberration, not the past five years, but oh God he couldn't breathe, couldn't _move,_ couldn't--

The lights flickered on.

Nick flinched and curled in on himself, shutting his eyes again, as tight as he could. He didn't want to see. The light was stabbing into his already-pounding head and, whatever it was, he _didn't want to see it._

It took...he didn't know how long it took, exactly, for it to penetrate through the light and the blood and the pain and the panic, but somewhere above him, someone was talking. Dimly at first, he became aware of the male voice, accented, talking at him. He latched onto that voice, using it as a lifeline to claw his way up out of the cold and the dark.

"If I remove the gag, will you behave?"

Nick nodded frantically. He couldn't breathe with it on, he needed to breathe, he needed it _gone._

"Good," the voice said.

Nick couldn't quite hold back a whimper when the tape was ripped off--half in reaction to the sudden pain (why was it that the small things were harder than the big ones, anyway) and half in relief.

He did his best to ignore the faint scent of sulfur. He couldn't do anything for the host, because if he tried, the gag would go back on. He shivered and curled as tight as he could, trying to pull away from that hand, that smell.

"Open your eyes, Nick," the demon said. "We need to talk."

For a second, Nick dared to consider resisting--exerting some measure of self control, however minor, was something he desperately needed to be able to do. If he was going to get through this--whatever this turned out to be--he _needed_ that.

But the gag was still there--the threat was still there--and Nick couldn't risk it.

The light wasn't as painful anymore, at least. The demon was waiting in the doorway, with at least the outward appearance of calm, possessing a bearded man in his late forties wearing an immaculate dark suit.

He smiled. "That's better."

Nick shivered, and kept his eyes on the demon, and didn't trust himself to speak.

"I've been looking for you for a long time, Nick," the demon said. "I need your help."

He froze. _Nonononono not again this can't be happening again this can't--_

Something sharp connected with the side of his head, and he fell over onto his side, unable to catch himself with his hands bound. He tasted blood and shuddered.

"Try to focus," the demon said.

With effort, Nick looked up at him again.

"Good. Now, I need to find a stone, about so big--" he held up his hands to demonstrate "--with a lot of unreadable squiggles on it."

_...what?_ "I d-don't...I don't h-have it?" he tried.

"I know you don't," the demon said. "But I think you know where it is."

"I don't, I s-swear."

He sighed. "What do you remember about the crypts?"

"I..." He trailed off, buried under a sudden onslaught of vague memories of dusty rooms and glowing wards. His heart sank, because he'd figured it out, why the demon wanted _him,_ and he... "I d-don't..."

"You saw everything he did," the demon said. "That's how possession works, Nick. You of all people should know that."

Nick flinched and looked away.

"All I want is for you to remember where the tablet is hidden."

"Wh-why...why would I do that?" he asked. He might have been a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. Anymore. He'd learned his lesson. He wasn't going down this road again. He _wasn't._

"Because," the demon said, "I can bring James back."

All fight--all feeling--drained out of him. The one thing he wanted--the one thing he'd _asked_ for, but he'd been told...Lucifer had said... "I don't believe you," he whispered.

The demon smiled, not unkindly. "Angels and demons work in different ways. We follow different rules. Lucifer, like all angels, was in the business of miracles--twisted, violent miracles, yes, but miracles nonetheless. Unfortunately, having been cast out himself, he could not retrieve a soul from Heaven, not anymore. No matter how much he wanted to bribe or reward you. But I don't work in miracles, Nick. I'm in sales. Believe me, if the price is right, there's very little I can't do, up to and including reuniting a soul from Heaven with a body six years dead and buried. And James was so small, he won't even remember living and dying the first time. Everybody wins."

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _breathe._ All he'd ever wanted, for six years, all he'd ever wanted, and all he'd have to do to get it was poke at things he didn't remember--things he wasn't meant to remember--to find the tablet, whatever it was.

He could do it. It would be hard, it would _hurt,_ but other survivors had done it. Other ex-vessels and former hosts had dug up their buried memories, accessed wells of knowledge they never knew they had. Sometimes they shared what they’d learned on the forum, in the locked parts where they were allowed to give identifying details. One of the hosts had even posted step-by-step instructions how to do it, for anyone else who needed or wanted to try. And there was no way such a small thing, one little piece of carved stone, even in the hands of a very clever demon, could do too much damage. Right?

"Get me the angel tablet, Nick," the demon went on, a barely-contained note of eagerness buried underneath the charm, "and I will give you back your son.”

Then it was like a switch flipped. His paranoia kicked in, and something tickled at the back of his memory, about the first vessel line he'd handled on his own, back in Kermit. Something one of them had said.

_What does this mean for my children?_

And that was it. That was the whole...that was _everything._ He couldn't do it. It didn't matter what damage finding the tablet for the demon might or might not do. If Jamie was in Heaven--if he was in Heaven...if he was in Heaven, he was safe. He was _free._ If Nick brought him back, no matter how happy they were, no matter how much having his son back helped him rebuild...sooner or later, an angel would come for Jamie. And no matter how much Nick tried to prepare him, sooner or later, the angel would win.

What the hell kind of father would he be, if he let that happen to his son? If he let his son end up like him?

"I can't," he whispered.

"You can," the demon said. "It's in there, I know it."

Nick shook his head. "I can't."

The demon's face darkened. "Fine, then," he said. "We'll do this the hard way." He crossed the room and replaced the tape over Nick's mouth.

He flinched back against the wall, tasting salt and expecting pain, but the demon just turned and left him there, alone, waiting for it to start.

The lights left with the demon.

Nick lay there, on his side, blood pooling in his hand, a little spot of heat in the cold and the dark. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe,_ couldn't...couldn't...

He tasted salt and blood and sulfur, and hoped, desperately, that this time, he'd made the right choice.


	18. Part 2, Chapter 3: Meg

 

**Meg**

 

Escaping Crowley hadn't been easy, even for Meg. Still, she'd meant it when she told Tesriel--she could fucking protect herself.

But it had taken her almost eighteen fucking months, which--okay, wasn't all _that_ long, but torture was different on Earth than in Hell. It played out different when there was actual skin to break.

The first year or so had been boring. Even _with_ actual skin to break, there was only so much that torture for pure punishment could vary itself. But then Crowley had found _questions_ to ask.

And then it got interesting. Not _good_ interesting, but still. Interesting.

Once that happened, at least, the focus shifted and the torture was easier to function through. Hard to give answers if you're too fucked up, naturally. And Crowley wanted answers. About the fucking crypts, and the fucking _angel_ tablet, of all things.

After she'd escaped, she'd considered dropping the Winchesters a line--that was their kind of mess to deal with, and they _were_ her allies now. Of course, they hadn't done a fucking thing to help her, and they had to have known fucking Crowley had walked away from Roman's place with her. So, if she saw them, sure, she'd give them a head's up, but she wasn't exactly gonna go out of her fucking way.

She'd laid low for a while instead, cautiously checking her usual intelligence threads, which was when she'd found out that Nick had disappeared.

_Fuck._

The angels hadn't bothered him, not in years, and they had no reason to start now. But _she'd_ given fucking Crowley a fucking golden incentive to go after him. _Fuck._

That meant she'd had to track down Nick's new babysitter, who was out looking for him and probably had no fucking idea what she was getting herself into. Reckless kid like that was gonna get someone killed--the _wrong_ someone killed. Plus, Meg would probably need an in with Nick. No fucking way of knowing how he'd react to seeing her again, after all.

Easy enough to strike up a conversation with a fellow hitchhiker--she’d always liked that play, when she was in a young enough host with a young enough target to pull it off. She was nothing if not a creature of habit.

The kid was sort of predictable, though--all bright blue hair and baby rebelliousness, whining about her mom just like every other runaway teenager always did, gesturing expansively to make her point, and Meg had actually started to relax and get into it again.

Because, sure, it was fucking predictable, but it was the _good_ kind of predictable, easing into a familiar, comfortable old back-and-forth routine, back on target, back on a fucking _mission,_ and having some concrete success at it, in at least one measurable way. She’d missed that. and, hell, even if it was a self-defined mission, it still felt good. For a given definition of ‘good,’ anyway.

That held up for a solid ten minutes, until the kid used one of those floppy-handed gestures to knock over her water bottle, right onto Meg’s lap.

So, she wasn't as subtle about it as the old man had been all those fucking years ago. But still, a water bottle that fucking _burned_ when it hit Meg’s leg did the job just as fucking well.

There was a split second where the two of them just stared at each other, then the kid reached into her bag and pulled out a--fucking taser? Dumbass. What the hell did she think that would--

She pointed it at Meg and squeezed the trigger, hard.

Okay, _what the fuck._ There was no _way_ a stupid fucking _taser_ should hurt this much. And Meg found herself fucking _frozen,_ on top of that, which made absolutely no--

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--"

_Fuck._ Meg could already feel the exorcism starting to tug at her, feel the hellfire licking at her heels, fucking _kid_ caught on way too fast and _fuck_ she needed to stop her.

"Stop--wait, don't send-- _fuck--_ "

"--omnis congregatio et secta diabolica--"

Fuck. So much for playing subtle. "I know where Nick is!"

The kid stopped.

_Fucking finally._ Meg flexed her fingers experimentally. The taser was wearing off, too. Good.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Well, I don't know _exactly_ where."

The kid's eyes shuttered again and she lifted the taser.

Meg held up her hands. " _But,_ " she continued, "I know who has him, and why."

She hesitated. "Who?"

"Crowley," she spat. "He's looking for the crypts."

"What crypts?"

"Lucifer's. His caches--weapons, useful intel, all kinds of crap in there. I've seen 'em all."

The girl blanched. "He's going to make Nick _remember._ "

"Yep," Meg confirmed. "Look, Lucifer only visited two of the crypts while he was topside. But one of them has what Crowley's looking for."

"And what's that?"

_Like I'm going to tell you._ Until Meg figured out how the kid had managed to fucking _paralyze_ her, she'd be stringing her along with the minimum necessary information. She wanted Nick back, and this kid was the gateway to him. Everybody who knew he was alive knew that. And besides, if she got sent back to Hell, she'd be back in Crowley's hands.

"Let's just say it's not something you want the fucking King of Hell to have."

The girl glowered at her. "That's not good enough."

"Well, tough," Meg said. "You want me to get you to Nick and the crypt, you'll suck it up and take what I give you."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because we both want the same fucking thing here." To a point, anyway. "We want Nick safe, and as far away from Crowley as we can get him."

"You're still a _demon,_ " the girl snapped.

"And you have a fucking demon stun gun," the demon snapped back. "I shouldn't be working with you at _all._ But Nick probably won't trust me to pull him out when I get there, so I don't have much of a choice here."

The kid considered for a minute, then finally lowered the taser. "Fine. Get me to Nick, I'll stop trying to exorcise you until then."

"Generous," Meg said dryly. "But I gotta point out, doing that won't do you any fucking good, you know. My host's been dead for years."

The kid bristled. "It's the principle of the thing."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Whatever." _This is gonna be a fun road trip._

"So, where's the crypt?" the kid asked.

Meg grinned. "You'll see when we get there. But first, we got some errands to run."

"No, we're going there _now._ "

"Chill, kid," she said. "If fucking Crowley had found it, we'd know. And it'll take him a while to dig it up."

The girl stared at her. "I am _not_ leaving Nick to be tortured any longer!"

"And _I'm_ not going up against the fucking King of Hell without some serious prep," Meg shot back. "We can't save him if we're dead."

The kid opened her mouth to argue, then shut it, glum and still pissy. "Fine."

"Okay, then," Meg said. "Let's get started."


	19. Part 2, Chapter 4: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

"The hostage is in there," Castiel said, nodding at the hotel bathroom.

Sam went to open the door. He wasn't entirely sure what he would find--the demon they'd interrogated hadn't given the identity of the hostage before Cas had killed it. He was pretty sure it wouldn't be Kevin behind the door, but other than that...well, okay, he was also pretty sure the hostage wasn’t another angel like Samandiriel, or Cas would have been more upset.

_Probably._

He couldn't help but remember the last time they'd seen Cas, and the little angel’s death.

"You just gonna stand there, or what?" Dean asked, moving past him and opening the door.

It was Nick. The hostage was Nick.

_Well, that makes sense,_ Sam thought, slightly dazed--it wasn't quite as bad at the last time, but his heart still skipped a beat, seeing _that_ face waiting on the other side of the door. And it _did_ sort of make sense, now that Nick was right in front of him, even if he never would have considered the older man as a possibility unprompted. Nick had _said_ he didn't remember his possession, other than a few details and some vague flashes, but if one of his details or flashes was the _right_ one...

Plus, _Crowley_ had no way of knowing how much Nick did or didn't remember. And it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility to guess that he'd been kept awake the whole time, just to torture him.

True, Sam hadn't noticed the tingling this time, not until now, but that might have been the adrenaline of the whole situation. Or the damage the Trials were doing to him, for that matter.

Dean's reaction was a lot less calm. "Jesus fuck!" He stepped back, reaching for his gun.

Sam jerked back to awareness and put a hand on his brother's arm. "Dean, it's okay. It's not...him."

"You're sure? Like, absolutely freaking _sure?_ "

Cas answered for him. "Yes."

Nick had shrunk back when the door opened, and was watching the three of them, pressed against the wall, frozen.

"Okay," Dean said, then repeated, "okay."

"Back off a little, let me talk to him," Sam said.

His brother hesitated a moment, then nodded, and went back into the main room, leaving Sam to calm Nick down and coax him out.

Sam stepped into the bathroom, staying just out of Nick's reach, and pulled the door almost shut behind him--he left just a crack open, as an obvious escape route, and then moved a little bit to the side so he wasn’t totally blocking the other vessel in. "It's okay," he said. "I'm sorry about Dean. Look, we're gonna get you out of here, okay?"

Nick didn't answer.

_...oh._ "Here, look, I can prove I'm me." He pulled out his angel blade and stretched out his arm, making sure it was at an angle where the older man could see. "Watch. No Grace, see?" He made a shallow cut across his forearm. "And here," he said, pulling out a flask. "Holy water." He splashed it on his arm. "No one in here but me."

He closed his eyes and took a deep, painful-sounding breath. "Can you..." he started, then shivered. "C-can you check me, too, please?"

"Of course. I'll untie you first, okay?"

Nick hesitated for a breath, then nodded and pulled away from the wall.

Sam moved behind him and cut the ziptie around his wrists. Nick visibly relaxed as soon as he was free, flexing his hands slightly. That reopened the scabs where the tie had dug in, and Sam couldn't help but wince in sympathy.

"Okay," he said. "Um. Do you want the cut or the holy water first?"

"Cut," Nick said, holding out his left arm.

As gently as he could and still draw blood, he pulled out the blade across the back of Nick's arm, then followed it with a quick splash of holy water. As expected, there was no reaction to either test.

"And no one in there but you," he said.

He nodded. "Okay. Okay, that's good." He shivered again and looked determinedly anywhere except his bleeding arm, while Sam found a towel to wrap it in.

"I'm so sorry," he said, after a minute or so of quiet. "I didn't know..." He swallowed the urge to cough. With his luck, that would mean more blood, and that was the last thing Nick needed to see right now.

He shook his head. "You're not responsible for saving me, Sam."

He'd said the same thing before, and Sam still couldn't really agree. Okay, fine, maybe in this one specific situation, but...

Well, Sam knew damn well that Nick wouldn't be anywhere _near_ this position at all if not for him. But the Trials would fix that, in the long run (as much as it could be fixed), and once they'd gotten that decoder or whatever from the crypt, Sam would make sure they took Nick somewhere safe. And he'd get Cas to heal him, assuming Nick was okay with that.

But first things first.

"We should...um. Are you...are you okay with talking to the others, too, or...?" he finally asked. "We're trying to get this thing before Crowley does..."

Nick was quiet for a minute, shivering a little and rubbing at his wrists. "I guess the angel comes as a package deal?"

Sam winced. "Cas is...Cas is different." _I guess healing is probably out, then..._

Nick looked up at him, but didn't comment further on that. "Okay," he said.

He relaxed a little. This debriefing would go a lot easier--and quicker--if he didn't have to relay questions and answers back and forth. "Okay." He offered Nick a hand to help him up.

He hesitated for half a second, then accepted.

Nick's hand was hot, feverish, and Sam was acutely aware of the texture of the scars. It took the older man a few seconds to balance, but then he let go, shivering again. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

Sam nodded, and opened the bathroom door. Dean and Cas were waiting for them in the main part of the hotel room.

“You good?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, leading Nick over to the bed.

He sat on the edge, still shivering a little and carefully avoiding looking at the dead demons scattered around the room. “Uh. What...what do you need to know?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, then Sam asked, “You’ve been telling Crowley about the...about Lucifer’s crypts?”

Nick flinched. “Yeah, he, uh...I’ve been...remembering.” He stared down at his hands. “I didn’t...it hurt. But I haven’t...it took me w-weeks to find the first one.”

“You can’t remember clearly?” Dean asked.

He shook his head. “It’s...it’s all distorted, a-and bloody in my head.”

“What have they found so far?” Cas asked.

“N-nothing yet. The...the other crypt was empty, and this one...I th-think I’ve gotten them close, but...but then the demons sent to search started...started dying, and…” His eyes flicked over to Cas very quickly, then back down at his hands. “But more come. There are always more. Crowley...for whatever reason, Crowley really wants the angel tablet.”

For a beat, everyone froze. Dean stared up at Cas for a minute.

Sam swallowed another cough, then asked, “Wait a second. Did you just say _angel_ tablet?”

Nick flinched a little, and looked up at him for a second, drained and sad and slightly uneasy, before dropping his eyes back to his hands. “That’s what they’ve been asking me about, at least...”

Dean stared up at Cas again. Sam kept his focus on Nick.

“Well, this is news to me as well,” Cas said. “The demons I interrogated must have been lying about their true intentions.”

“Really?” Dean asked, skeptically.

“Sorry, but--but th-they’ll be back soon,” Nick interrupted. “Can we...can we go now? Please?”

Sam bit his lip. “We need to find this crypt before they do. Nick, how close are you? Can you...can you find it for us?”

He hesitated for a second. “I don’t...maybe. I think so. I can...I might be able to point it out on a map.”

“We found a 3D model of the town earlier,” Sam said. “Would that help?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah. That would--I mean, different perspective, but...yeah. I should be able to find it for you.”

“Good,” Dean said. “Then let’s go find the damn thing before Crowley gets back.”


	20. Part 2, Chapter 5: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

The demon dumped one final bag of supplies into the backseat of the car she’d stolen, and Claire sighed. “Are you _finally_ ready?”

She rolled her eyes. “Bitch, bitch, bitch. Yes, we should be set now.”

Claire eyed the collection of various _things_ in the backseat as the demon slid into the driver’s seat and got them on the road. Some of them made sense--lighter fluid, salt, a few other dried herbs and spices that probably had similar protective--or weapony--properties, even if she herself wasn’t familiar with them, a couple of really nice knives, some bloody white paper bags she hadn’t looked inside, a copious amount of liquor…useful things, or things that a demon would want to have around.

But some of the stuff?

“What’s all this for?” she finally asked.

“Some of it’s defense, some of it’s offense,” the demon answered.

“…and the pixie stix?” There was a whole box of them--and not the normal ones, but the giant, two-foot-long plastic ones that took like an hour to eat. The liquor she could understand--it didn't exactly make her _happy,_ that the demon had detoured to buy it, but it made sense. At least it could be used as an accelerant, or something. Even if that probably wasn't what the demon wanted, she could deal with that. But pixie stix?

She reached back and snagged ones. “Those are just delicious.”

Claire resisted the urge to get her taser out. _I promised not to attack her. And I’m pretty sure she’s not lying, about the crypts or whatever. Damn it._ “So, you’ve been wasting time buying booze and candy? What happened to _saving_ him?”

The demon rolled her eyes again. “For fuck’s sake, calm down, kid.”

She refused to respond to that.

She sighed. “Look. You’re way more freaked than you fucking need to be. He’s not gonna be as fucked up as you think.”

That earned her a stony glare.

The demon pondered for a minute, then said, “Okay. Fine. Think of Nick’s brain--or the important part, anyway--as like a pile of old filmstrips. They’ve got a lot of really fucking important crap on them, but they're _really_ fucking old, which makes 'em delicate. And none of them are labeled. And they’re all in a tangled pile in a rotting cardboard box. For now, Crowley just wants one specific filmstrip, but he might need another one later, so he can’t afford to fucking damage them. And if he pulls too fast or too hard, he’ll tear at least one, probably more. And if he damages the box too badly, he’ll lose _all_ of the fucking strips. And there’s no other fucking copies _anywhere,_ so if he does that, he’s fucked.”

“So…what the hell does that mean?”

“It means that Crowley has to be fucking _careful._ He has to push Nick just far enough that the torture’s worse than the psychic pain of probing his memories, _without_ going too far and fucking him over too badly.”

Claire was silent for a long moment, trying to process that. “What…is that supposed to comfort me?”

The demon gave her a look. “The hell gave you the idea I was in this to comfort you, sweetheart? It is what it is. I just want you fucking _focused._ Underestimating the King will get us killed, sure, but blowing this out of fucking proportion is just as stupid.”

That was…okay, that actually _was_ weirdly reassuring. Or it made sense, anyway. Except… “You talk like you know a lot about how his mind works,” she said.

She snarled at the sky. “Fucking asshole held me for over a year. I managed to get away, that’s probably when he grabbed Nick.”

Even more reassuring. The demon’s--Meg’s--motives were getting a lot clearer, and starting to make sense. For a demon’s motives, anyway. Spite was a pretty damn clear explanation for things here. Most of it, at least. “And Nick?”

Meg didn’t answer right away. “I never hurt him, kid,” she finally said, with a sigh. “And I don’t plan on hurting him unless I have to. He’s still alive for a reason, and I have no fucking clue what that reason is yet.”

…less reassuring. Claire almost asked what the hell Meg meant by it, but decided she didn't really want to know the answer. Not from a demon's perspective, anyway. Besides, she had no way to tell how much truth the demon was giving her. For all she knew, Meg had only spent time with Nick while he was possessed. If she could figure out how without freaking him out, she might ask Nick about her. When they get him back.

Instead, for now, she shifted gears just a little bit. “So, what, you believe in fate?” She didn't really know what demons believed, if they believed anything--and, okay, she was sort of curious. And she didn't usually actually _talk_ to the demons she met. Not safe, first of all, and she had more important priorities. But...okay, to put the best possible spin on this, if she took advantage of this opportunity to learn how demons thought, what they believed, it might be easier to outthink the next one before someone else's shoulder got shredded.

But, mostly, if she was honest with herself--and she did at least try to be--it was almost totally motivated by simple curiosity. And it wasn't like asking questions made it take any longer to get to this crypt place Meg had told her about, now that they were actually driving there.

She snorted. “Fate’s just an excuse for whiny, pathetic losers who got fucked over and don’t have the balls to fight back.”

“Oh.”

They sat quietly for a moment, then the demon elaborated. “But what I _do_ believe is that there’s things in this universe that have a lot of fucking power to throw around, and they play for keeps, and I can’t always see the endgame ‘til it’s too late.”

“Like Lucifer?”

“Fuck off,” Meg said casually.

Claire could read the danger there anyway, so she dropped the subject, and considered for a minute before reaching back and grabbing one of the pixie stix. “So, how far to this crypt thing?”

Meg smirked at her. “We’ll be there by nightfall.”

“Good.”


	21. Part 2, Chapter 6: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

Nick had fled upstairs as soon as he'd pointed out the building he thought housed the crypt, and Cas had quietly followed, leaving Dean alone with his brother at last.

Good. They needed to talk.

"You're pissed," Sam said.

"No, I'm not," he said. _Not about what you think I'm pissed about, at least._ But talking about this was easier than talking about the other crap, so, sure, he'd go with it. "I just...do you really trust him?"

"Nick? Yes."

"Are you _sure?_ "

" _Yes._ "

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. "Is this just...I don't know, a pity thing, 'cause of Crowley and the scars and all that crap, or do you have an actual reason?"

Sam glared at him. "Nick's a friend. We've been in touch for a little over a year."

Dean felt a sharp stab of jealousy. "So, what, instead of looking for me, or Kevin, you spent a year trading war stories with the guy who signed up to be Lucifer's bitch?"

"Oh, so we're gonna do this again?"

"Well, explain it to me!"

" _I_ said yes to him, too, remember?"

Okay, yeah, fair point. Sort of. "That was different."

Sam just stared at him.

Dean looked away first. "Look, I'm not saying hang the guy out to dry, or leave him with Crowley, just...maybe don't jump to trusting him so easily." Given that he was barely sure they could even trust _Cas_ at this point... "How'd you even find him, anyway, if you quit hunting?"

Sam hesitated a second before answering. "Online support group, for people who've been possessed."

He blinked. "That...that's an actual thing?" More importantly, Sam had gone _looking_ for something like that?

Maybe Sam was having a harder time than he'd thought, even after Cas dealt with the hallucinations. Maybe the blood in the trash can had something to do with that, not the Trials. He could almost be glad about that, because he _needed_ the Trials to be a complete and total win, especially now that Sam was doing them instead of him, except...

Crap. Obviously, Dean hadn't been paying enough attention since he'd gotten back.

Sam just shrugged. "It surprised me, too. I found it kind of by accident when I was living with Amelia last year."

"Huh," Dean said. "You, uh, you didn't mention this before."

He shook his head. "It's like AA, or Fight Club. You don't talk about it with people who aren't part of it."

Which made sense, Dean grudgingly admitted to himself, even if he didn't like being on the outside of something this obviously important to Sam. "So, do you know why he said yes?"

Sam gave him a look. "What part of 'Fight Club Cone of Silence' do you not understand?" He sighed. "Look, even if I _did_ know, I wouldn't tell you. Not unless he said I could."

"So you never even asked?" That would've been pretty damn high on the list for Dean.

He shook his head again. "It's like...Vessel Etiquette 101. You don't ask another vessel why they said yes. It's about...it's about choice, and control. So it's up to him to tell me, or anyone else, if he wants to. His choice, still. Everything about it has to be _his_ choice. I can't take that from him."

All right, Dean could accept that, even if he wasn't sure he agreed. "Okay. If you're sure about him, we'll follow his lead to that warehouse."

Sam relaxed. "Thanks, Dean," he said, then cleared his throat awkwardly. "'Scuse me a sec."

He slipped away, but he couldn't quite muffle that freaking coughing enough for Dean to miss it. Especially since he was expecting it and keeping an ear out specifically.

And _there_ was the real problem. Sam and Cas were both acting off and hiding things, and if Dean couldn't be sure _they_ weren't lying...

Just because Nick wasn't helping Crowley by choice didn't mean he was on _their_ side, after all.

Still, Nick could get them to the angel tablet before Crowley got it, and, at least as far as Dean could tell, he seemed to actually want to help. That counted for something. And it wasn’t like they had any other leads to chase down instead.

He sighed, then went to join Sam in grabbing Cas and Nick and heading out the door. The sooner they found the damn tablet and got the hell out of dodge, the better. He could worry about the rest later.


	22. Part 2, Chapter 7: Castiel

**Castiel**

 

Sam and Dean clearly needed some private time, and Nick had slipped off upstairs already. Lacking anything else to do--and knowing better than his human companions how wounded the former vessel was--Castiel followed.

He found him curled up on a couch, staring out the window.

"You're hurt," he said quietly, for the moment keeping his distance. Nick had barely looked at him since they'd rescued him, and it wouldn't require Castiel's experience with humans to see how uneasy he was.

Sure enough, Nick jumped and pulled back a little when the angel spoke. "I...I-I'm used to it."

"I could heal you," he offered, holding out a hand.

The vessel flinched and pulled back further, as if he was trying to melt into the wall. "No. Thank you."

He frowned a little. "I won't hurt you. I'm not like him."

He shook his head. "You're still an angel."

 

_Castiel is facing Naomi again._

_"Use a lighter touch, Castiel," she says. "We don't want him to bolt."_

 

He hesitated a moment. "Some of your wounds have festered," he said. "Will you at least allow me to clean and bandage them? I promise, I will do nothing a human can't do."

Nick didn't respond right away, twisting his fingers nervously. "And you'll stop if I change my mind?"

"Of course."

Still, he held back a few more seconds before finally clearing his throat. "Okay. Fine." He held out his shaking hands.

Castiel nodded and approached, sitting next to the vessel and producing the necessary medical supplies.

Nick flinched again, but took a deep breath and didn't pull back or ask the angel to stop.

 

_"Reassure him, Castiel," Naomi says. "Convince him he has nothing to fear from Heaven."_

_"How?" he asks, bewildered. Whatever secrets are buried in Nick's mind, whatever Naomi wants from him, it won't come easily._

_"Be compassionate," she says. "And say no more than is necessary of his potential value to us."_

 

Tending to Nick's wounds the human way was taking far longer than Castiel was comfortable with. It felt painfully insufficient. Nor did he like the speed of his breathing and pulse. It felt like he was doing more harm than good. He wanted to help this man--and even if he couldn't heal the greater part of his damage, the wounds etched into him by Lucifer's tainted Grace, surely there was _something_ more than this achingly slow process, especially when his mere proximity made the poor man so anxious that...

Perhaps he could calm him. Maybe persuade Nick to accept a little more aid. But even if he didn't get that far...well, he could distract him from his fear, at least.

"I am sorry," he started, "for what my brother did to you."

Nick jerked. "Wh-what?"

"He was needlessly cruel. And he left you vulnerable to...well, to the ambitions of creatures like Crowley."

Nick shivered. "I...made a choice. I'm a vessel, and I made a choice."

He repeated it like a mantra, like it would calm him down--strange. But his heart was still racing. This conversation was not having the desired effect.

And...looking closer, there was something decidedly unusual here, something very strange about the human, something he couldn't quite name. But the closer he got to Nick, the more he touched him--though he did, of course, keep his promise; he offered no healing beyond what a human could provide--the more he started to realize there was something very odd about the vessel’s soul. It was almost like--

 

_"That's not important," Naomi says, though she's leaning forward with an extremely interested, almost acquisitive, gleam in her eyes._

_"But it might be something I can--"_

_"You promised him you'd respect his wishes," she reminds him. "Pay no attention to the marks on his soul. Focus on gaining his trust."_

 

He'd gotten distracted, lost his train of thought. He secured the bandage on Nick's right wrist, then carefully reached for the left.

Nick didn't resist, but he was watching him, trying to appear as if he _wasn't_ watching him, and clearly worrying about something.

"What's wrong?" Castiel asked, as gently as he could.

He jumped about a mile, then shook his head. "Nothing."

"Your hand is shaking," the angel noted. "I promise you, I won't hurt you. I don't like to see people suffer."

He hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath and forced out a question. "Is...is he suffering? Your vessel."

Castiel blinked. _That_ was...unexpected. "Jimmy? No. He's in Heaven. He has been for some time."

Nick jerked a little. "But...but how...how can he consent if he's not even...how is that _possible?_ "

"We died," he answered. "I was brought back. He wasn't. But I assure you, he's in Heaven, safe, where he belongs."

He looked horrified. "But...that doesn't...how..."

 

_"Placate him, Castiel," Naomi says. "We're losing him."_

 

He was growing dangerously agitated again.

"I wish I knew," Castiel admitted. "It shouldn't be possible, you're right. All I know is that, when I was resurrected, Jimmy didn't come with me. I found him in Heaven later."

Nick was prevented--or, perhaps, spared--having to respond, when Sam and Dean rejoined them.

“You ready to head out?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Castiel said, backing away from Nick.

“You sure you want to come with us?” Sam asked the older vessel. “We can ward this house, make sure you’re safe, then come back for you later.”

He shook his head. “I won’t be...I can’t be sure I s-sent you to the right place until I actually see it.”

“Okay,” Sam said, and helped him stand and balance.

 

_“Do not let him fall back into Crowley’s hands,” Naomi warns._

_As if he needs to be told. “I won’t.”_

_“Stay close. If you can leave with him, so much the better, but do not jeopardize the rest of your mission.”_

 

He blinked, and then followed the others outside, heading for the crypt. With any luck, Nick had identified the correct building, and this extraction would be quick and simple, and then he could explain a little better--as much as such things were possible to explain--what had happened to Jimmy. And then, perhaps, he would be able to convince Nick to accept a little protection. It was, he thought, unfair that the man had been left on his own for so long. He had been lucky that Crowley--and everyone else--had taken this long to harm him.

But first, the tablet. Everything else was a secondary concern. And once he had the tablet, everything would fall into place, and be just as it should be.


	23. Part 2, Chapter 8: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

Once Dean and the angel disappeared into the crypt, Nick relaxed marginally. They would be back, he knew that, but without the angel hovering so close, it felt less unsafe.

Especially since it was _this_ angel, and given what had happened to his vessel...

_How am I going to tell them?_

They'd suspected for years, and Amelia, at least, seemed to find it easier to believe it, but it was one thing to suspect, and another to _know._

He tried to forget that for the moment. He needed to focus on helping Sam ward the building, because it wouldn't be long before Crowley noticed--

As if thinking of the demon had summoned it, the dull, throbbing pain along his ribs and spine and joints flared to life.

"You okay?" Sam asked. It must have shown on his face.

He shook his head. "Just give me a minute," he managed to get out, then closed his eyes, trying to fight it. Out of habit, he reached for his ring, forgetting that it was--

_Oh, God._ The ring was _gone,_ Crowley had...he had...

He blinked, and the world snapped back into focus around him. He'd somehow ended up on the ground, leaning against the car. Sam was crouched next to him, visibly worried, focusing in on him instead of watching for threats or...

_Dammit._

"Nick? Are you okay?" Sam asked again.

"I...just...sorry," Nick said. "I'm...just give me a minute, I'll get up."

"Whoa, easy. Look, maybe you should wait in the car," he said. "I mean, you were just...we warded it pretty good, so you should be safe in there."

He shook his head, took as deep a breath as he could without making the pain worse, then dragged himself up.

Sam frowned, but didn't press. Instead, he caught his arm to help him. Nick tried not to flinch and fought for balance as the world tilted dangerously around him.

He needed his ring. God, he needed his ring.

He twisted his fingers instead, pretending he felt it there, and it almost worked.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked quietly, letting go and backing up a pace.

He nodded. "I need...I can't be alone with my thoughts right now."

There was a flicker of understanding in his eyes, and Sam nodded. "Okay."

"I'm pretty good with wards, at least," he said. "I can help."

"All right." Sam passed him a can of spray paint, then turned away, coughing.

It sounded deep, and painful.

"Are _you_ okay?" Nick asked softly.

"I'm fine," Sam said, turning back. "We should get started."

There was blood on his lips, or what looked like blood. Nick swallowed and twisted his imaginary ring again. Blood on someone else didn't set him off, not the way his own blood did, but he still didn't like it.

"You're bleeding," he said.

"Dammit," Sam said, and wiped his mouth. "Sorry, I thought I got it all."

Nick nodded, then carefully picked his way over to the wall to start drawing wards. He shouldn't ask. He _knew_ he shouldn't. Denial was a defense mechanism for a reason, and it wasn't like he wasn't doing the same damn thing.

But at the same time, Sam was coughing _blood._ That wasn't...he couldn't ignore that.

He finally settled on just giving Sam an opening. If he didn't take it, Nick could back off. But if he did...Sam could have someone on the outside of whatever personal drama he was going through to talk to, and Nick could be distracted from his own pain for just a little while longer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Sam huffed a little, but didn't answer right away. He just kept painting his sigil. After a minute, though, he said, "It's probably because of the Trials."

"What Trials?"

"Closing the Gates of Hell," he answered. "Locking away all the demons, forever."

He blinked. "That's...wow. That's what's making you...?"

Sam shrugged. "It started after I finished the first Trial, and it feels almost like...it's hard to explain. I don't...uh. I don't know if I can put it into words right now."

He nodded. "That's...are you in a lot of pain?"

He looked over at him. "You say that like you don't think it's worth it."

Nick shook his head. "It is. Of course it is. It's just..."

"Quests like this tend to end badly," Sam finished for him.

"Everything has a price," he agreed quietly. _And sometimes, no matter what you're buying, it might be a little too high._ He couldn't help but think of what Crowley had offered, though that was sort of the opposite. Maybe remembering willingly would have been less painful, but it wasn't worth the consequences.

At least it was better than remembering--

He twisted his fingers again, viciously, and practically heard the bone creak. Thank God Sam didn't notice, too wrapped up in his own pain.

"Yeah. I know." He sighed. "I'll figure it out somehow."

"If anyone can, it's you." Nick finished his sigil and shook the can, ignoring the pain from his wrists and fingers and grateful that the angel's bandages hid any blood he might be oozing.

"So, what is it, then?" Sam asked.

"It's...if you think it's worth it, then it's...it's an amazing thing that you're doing, and I need you to know that I believe that. It's just...not the hill I'd choose to die on," he said, after considering how to word it for a moment. "Demons aren't...my monsters aren't demons."

"Even after Crowley?"

Nick shivered, and went for his missing ring again, a little more gently this time. "Call me if you need someone to lock Heaven. _That's_ my hill. Crowley is...he's...demons aren't my monsters. Angels are."

Sam considered that for a minute. "Okay. Yeah, I get that."

Nick nodded. "But I mean it. I think it's...you're possibly dying, to save the world. Again." It was important, for reasons he knew he couldn’t explain, not now, anyway, that Sam recognized he knew how amazing this was.

"I'm not going to die," Sam insisted. "I told you. I'll figure it out."

And he’d done it wrong. He shook his head. "Sorry. I just meant...thank you. On behalf of hosts and vessels everywhere. This is a pretty amazing thing that you're doing. Especially because most of us couldn't, for one reason or another."

Sam gave him a strange look, one Nick couldn’t quite read, but said, “Uh. Okay. You’re welcome.”

“Okay,” Nick said, painfully aware that he’d screwed that up somewhere. He escaped back into his sigils. That was something he _knew_ he could do well.

Sam let him, likewise retreating back into his own thoughts, and the next few minutes past in silence, except for the rattling paint cans and Sam’s not-quite-ragged breathing.


	24. Part 2, Chapter 9: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

Sam finished spray-painting another defensive sigil on the wall and glanced over at Nick. The older man had paused halfway through his own sketch, twisting an imaginary ring with a closed-off, faraway expression.

He knew that look. He'd worn it himself more than once, trying desperately to hold onto the present when painful memories were doing their best to be overwhelming. Thankfully, not all that recently, but...yeah. He knew that look.

He caught himself idly pressing on his scar and shook his head slightly. _Yeah, leaving the two of us as rearguard was a_ brilliant _idea._

Granted, it would have been a worse idea all around to take Nick into the crypt, and none of them had wanted to leave him alone, including Nick himself. And he was still terrified of Cas, and Dean had insisted on going in with the angel, and...

Yeah. Sam had a sneaking suspicion this mission was already doomed.

He should try to get Nick's attention, at least. The longer he was zoned out like this, the more dangerous it probably was.

Before he could call out to him, though, he heard a noise from the alley to their left. Nick jumped about a mile and backed against the wall.

Sam shifted position and pulled out Ruby's knife. "Get behind the wards," he hissed at Nick, but before he could do it, a blue blur shot out of the alley in their general direction. The blur neatly sidestepped Sam, skidding to a halt in front of Nick.

"Nick!" The blur resolved into a bright-eyed, college-aged girl with shaggy blue hair.

"Claire," he breathed, visibly relieved. Sam relaxed a hair in his turn--obviously, these two knew each other, and Nick trusted the kid, and she’d run right through one of the Devil’s Traps they’d painted on the ground. Maybe she was the niece Nick had mentioned months ago, back the first time they’d met in person. He kept the knife out just in case, but the kid probably wasn’t a threat.

Good thing, too. He couldn’t _believe_ he’d let her get by him like that. Fuck.

"Don't _ever_ do that again, okay?"

"I'll try," he said, with a faint, shaky smile.

She stepped back a little, presumably to get a better look. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I..." He toyed with his fingers again. "Not now, okay?"

She bit her lip, but nodded. "Okay." She finally turned and acknowledged Sam with a smile. "Hi. Sorry. I've been looking for him for a while. I got...uh...overexcited."

He smiled back. "It's okay. I get it." He studied her for a second. There was something vaguely familiar about her, now that he thought about it. "Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

Claire rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to respond, but Nick cut her off.

"Sorry, but--Claire, are you here alone? I think someone's watching us."

Sam tensed and shifted a little, peering into the alleys to try and figure out what the hell Nick had picked up on that he hadn’t.

"Right! Um. About that." She shifted a little awkwardly. "Once we figured out you were...um...I needed help figuring out who had you and why, not to mention _finding_ you, and...look, don't be mad, okay?"

He blinked. "Why would I be--" He caught sight of something past her shoulder and tensed.

Sam turned to see Meg, her hair bleached almost white, except for a few seemingly random pink streaks. He adjusted his grip on the knife, wary, but--well, last time they’d met, at least, Meg had been friendly. And given what Claire had said...

"Nice going, kid," she said, rolling her eyes in Claire's general direction. "Way to check and make sure the coast is clear before barging in the fucking front door. Perimeter's secure for now, by the way, if you cared." She smirked at Sam and Nick. "Hiya, Sam. Hey, baby. Did you miss me?"

Sam blinked and turned to Nick. "Baby?" he asked.

At the same time, Claire said, "Wait, you two _actually_ know each other?"

"Oh, we go way back," Meg said. "Didn't I tell you? I kept him safe 'til the fucking chompers showed up."

Nick looked away and didn't answer.

"Why?" Sam asked. Friendly or not, there was no way Meg had babysat Nick for two years out of the goodness of her heart.

She rolled her eyes again. "Gee, I dunno. Why didn't you come looking for me after I got shot two dozen fucking times for you? Bullets hurt, you know."

Sam blinked. "I...uh..." He coughed awkwardly, for once glad of the easy deflection excuse.

Not that looking for Meg would have been a priority even if he _had_ been in a position, mentally, to go looking for anyone, but...

She _had_ gone to the mat for them in a big way.

Either way, she seemed to be done needling him for the moment. She turned back to Nick. "So, baby, where's Crowley?"

Nick flinched, and wouldn't look at her, but actually answered. "I don't know. I haven't seen him in days."

Meg started to say something else, but paused. “We’ve got company.”

With no further warning, thunder rumbled. Nick flinched and Claire stepped protectively in front of him.

"I believe they're playing my song."

Meg hissed and her eyes went black. “ _Crowley,_ ” she spat.

He smirked and ignored that. “Love what you’ve done with the place. You really think all that was gonna keep me out forever?”

“At least long enough for Dean and Cas to get the tablet and get out,” Sam said, shifting his grip on the knife.

“Castiel,” Crowley said, equal parts interested and annoyed. “So that’s who’s been poking my boys, and not in a sexy way.” He shook his head. “Got a bone to pick with you, Moose, after what you did to my poor dog.”

“You gonna talk us to death, or get down to it already?” Meg interrupted.

"There's my--"

Faster than Sam would have guessed, Crowley went down on his knees with a surprised grunt of pain. There were leads of some kind going into his neck.

" _Fuck_ yeah!" Meg crowed.

At the same time, Sam blurted, "What the hell?"

"Holy taser," Claire answered grimly.

Nick, less than half a beat later, said, "Demon stun gun."

"It was my idea, I get to name it!" she said.

Sam didn't need their background to figure this was a long-standing argument between them. For the moment, though, Nick just shook his head, still pressed as close to the wall as he could get.

"Sam, go," Meg said, turning hungry eyes to Crowley. "We got this."

Sam nodded and pelted into the warehouse after Dean and Cas, leaving Crowley in their hands.


	25. Part 2, Chapter 10: Claire

  **Claire**

 

"I _had_ him," Claire snapped. "If you'd just let me finish--"

"You would've fucking exorcised _me,_ too, remember?" Meg snapped back.

"You're forgetting that I don't like you."

Meg smirked. "I'm not the only one, sweetheart."

"Both of you, shut up!" Dean snapped.

At least partially because it was probably a bad idea to piss off the guy driving the getaway car as anything else, Claire obeyed, staring sullenly out the window instead.

Crowley had run as soon as Sam and Dean came out of the crypt, probably realizing he was outnumbered and there was no way he could come out of the confrontation with a win. But if Meg had just let Claire _finish_ her damned exorcism…

The demon was just lucky that Nick was between them on the backseat, and the angle was awkward as a result, or Claire would have tased her now and finished the job. After all, she’d more than fulfilled her end of the bargain by tolerating her for this long.

But Dean had piled everyone into the car as soon as they were out anyway, with the rationale that Crowley could easily come back with reinforcements, and no one had argued, and Nick had ended up in the middle, so they were stuck.

She sighed, counting to ten and forcing herself to be as calm as possible before turned to Nick. "Are you okay?" she asked, as quietly as she could. Which, obviously he wasn’t, but she hadn’t really gotten a chance to get a close look, and God only knew what other damage he was hiding besides the bandages peeking out from under his sleeve.

"I...I...he took my ring." Nick shuddered and repeated, "He took my _ring,_ Claire, I can't--I can't do this without my ring, I..."

_Oh shit._ She hadn’t noticed. _Crap._ She’d been so worried about the physical damage, so relieved to see him standing on his own and coherent and...his missing ring should have been the first thing she noticed. How could she have been so… _fuck._

But there would be plenty of time to beat herself up for that later. Right now, she had to reassure him and make sure he _stayed_ on his feet and coherent.

"Hey--hey, Nick, look at me. Please, look at me. Okay? We'll figure something out, and we'll do everything we can to get it back. But until then, just...just remember that you're not alone, and you're _safe_ now, you're free, and it's been five years, and you're still free. We'll figure it out, okay?"

It took him a minute to respond, but finally, with obvious effort, he nodded. "It's been five years. A-and I'm still free. We'll...we'll t-take it one day at a time."

"Yeah," she said, and smiled.

"Okay. Okay."

"You're good?"

"I..." He trailed off, then took a deep breath. "One day at a time," he repeated.

"Okay," she said.

“Everything okay back there?" Sam asked.

"For the moment," Nick said, fiddling nervously with his fingers.

"Good," Dean said.

Nick shivered and Claire resisted the urge to put a hand on his shoulder. Right now, with where his head was, she'd do more harm than good.

“So, what the fuck happened in there?” Meg asked, after another moment of silence. “All we got was a hell of a lot of noise.”

“Cas walked away with the tablet,” Dean said grimly.

Claire froze. “...Castiel was here?” Her mind spun with the--well, revelation maybe wasn’t the right word, because she vaguely remembered Sam saying ‘Cas’ before, when her taser had freaking jammed and she’d been trying to fix it so they could bring Crowley to his knees, but for some reason...for some reason it hadn’t registered then.

But it sure as hell did now.

Dean glanced up, meeting her eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Yeah. He didn’t...uh. Things got kind of...messy in there.”

She nodded, and leaned against the window again, looking out. She wasn’t totally sure she knew how to feel about that. And why hadn’t she _known?_ Even above and beyond not paying enough attention to what Sam and Crowley and Meg were saying, she _should_ have known that her angel was so close, shouldn’t she?

It was Nick’s turn to offer her comfort, a light touch against her wrist. She turned her hand and squeezed his briefly, acknowledging, then took a deep breath. “Okay. It’s...okay.”

Dean looked up again, this time exchanging a look with Sam, then said, “I want to get some distance, but then we can all hole up and go over exactly what went down, and figure out where to go from there. And contact information. This time, we’re all getting each other’s numbers. Okay?”

“Seems logical to me,” Meg said.

“Until then,” Sam said, “truce, okay? No one tases anyone else. Got it?”

“Fine,” Claire said, still distracted by Castiel having been so close, and--well, it didn’t matter. If he wanted to find her, he probably could. And she wasn’t really pissed at Meg anymore, anyway.

“Fine by me,” Meg agreed, half a beat later.

Dean put music on at that point--probably hoping to drown out any more arguing--and they sped off into the night, far away from the crypt and Crowley and Castiel.


	26. Part 3, Chapter 1: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

It had taken close to two hours for all of the angels to fall. The three of them had watched the whole thing through their window, horrified. Nick had been shaking so hard that Mom had had to put as much effort into making sure he didn't pass out as watching the angels burn across the sky. He somehow managed to make it through 'til it stopped--probably at least as much because he couldn't _not_ watch as because of Mom's quiet support.

So now Claire was curled up in his desk chair, keeping guard while he slept. He was in for a string of rough nights, she was pretty sure, and he did better when he wasn't alone.

As for her...Claire hadn't been this scared in a long time. Not since she and Mom had realized Nick was missing, for sure. Maybe even not since their time on the run from Heaven _and_ Hell, or even since the demon had shot Daddy and Castiel had promised to save him.

Of course, Castiel hadn't exactly kept that promise, but that wasn't the point.

She rubbed at her eyes, more tired than she'd expected. Maybe she should go get coffee or something, make sure she didn't fall asleep while Nick needed her to keep watch.

When she opened her eyes, she and Nick were no longer alone.

She scrambled for her taser and moved between Nick and the stranger. He was tall and blond, wearing a neat suit and an unbearably smug expression.

_How the hell did he get in here without me noticing?_

"Hello, Claire," he said.

She glared at him. "What the hell are you? How did you get in here?"

"My name is Bartholomew," he said. "I'm an angel."

"Bullshit," she snapped. "Our house is totally angel proofed."

"You're dreaming," he informed her. "It doesn't matter how well warded you are physically. We can always find you here."

Claire swallowed back bile. Not only had she failed to stay awake and protect Nick, but angels could go poking around in her dreams _whenever they wanted_ and...

"What do you want?"

"We need your help, Claire," he said.

Well, it didn't take a genius to figure out what kind of help he wanted. "Screw you. Once was enough. And I don't like you."

"Just hear me out," he said. "I'm sure you saw what happened earlier."

"It was kind of hard to miss."

"We've fallen," he said. " _All_ of us. I was lucky enough to find a vessel quickly, but many of my brothers and sisters are still exposed. Which is dangerous for everyone, humans and angels alike."

"Don't pretend to care about us," she said. "My answer's still no."

"You can help us lessen that danger," Bartholomew said. "You are one of--if not the--most powerful unoccupied vessel on Earth. You can hold anyone short of an Archangel. And all of them are gone, anyway. We need you, Claire."

Well, that was a load of bull, since Claire would stake her life on the fact that Sam and Dean were still unoccupied.

...unless they were dead. Best not to think about that.

She shook her head. "Not my problem. Go bother someone else. I don't care who I can hold, my answer is still no."

"Just meet with a few of my followers," he wheedled. "I'm sure we can reach some sort of agreement. Protection for your friend there, for example."

Her eyes narrowed. "Even if he wanted your protection, I know what angels' promises are worth. My answer is _no._ "

"We are getting other volunteers, you know," he said, his smile turning sharp.

"Good for them," she said. "Their choice, not mine."

"True. Of course, none of them have your capacity. A few have died already."

She flinched, but forced herself not to look away or back down.

"Bartholomew," a woman's voice cut in, before Claire could refuse again.

The angel jerked, and actually looked alarmed for a second, before putting his oily mask back on. "Naomi. You're alive."

"You seem surprised." The newcomer was a tall, statuesque woman who looked about Mom's age, in a crisp suit with her hair pulled back in a severe knot. She smiled at Bartholomew, all teeth.

"What do you want, Naomi?"

"Get out," she said, calm and elegant and _terrifying,_ "or I will throw you out."

Bartholomew vanished.

Claire glared at Naomi, squashing her fear as best she could. "I won't say yes for you, either."

Naomi's smile softened. "That's not why I'm here. I have a vessel already, and an ambitious subordinate has taken control of my faction, so..." She spread her hands. “I have no one else to provide for, either.”

"Then what do you want?"

The angel was silent for a moment. "Well, I'll admit that part of why I was here is because I've been trying to see if the factions have changed again, and I knew at least one of them would contact you. It's been...chaotic, at home, since we lost Michael. And I'm sure Metatron has only made things worse, casting us out. And the more I know, the better chance I have of handling the damage."

Claire just stared at her. "Why do you think I care?"

"Because whether you like it or not--whether _I_ like it or not--our feuds are down here now. And especially with the work you and Nick have been doing, you won't be able to avoid getting involved."

"Why are you telling me this?" Claire asked, suspicious.

"Because I want to help you."

" _Why?_ "

"I had an epiphany," Naomi said. "Which is a rare thing for us, at least since our Father left. Our charge was to guide and protect humanity, and we forgot that. _I_ forgot that. I was too caught up in the internal politics of it all. We need to find our way back. And make up for the wrongs we've done you, and each other."

She stared at the angel. "I'm not interested in helping you soothe your guilty conscience."

"I know," Naomi said. "But remember what I offered--protection, and aid, for your campaign. If you change your mind, pray for me." With that, the angel left, and Claire jerked awake with a gasp.

Nick was still sleeping, at least. He hadn't needed her while Bartholomew and Naomi were trying to woo her.

Because, yeah. Naomi was _totally_ trying to woo her. Claire did not trust one word of what the second angel had said. Except, maybe, that the newly-fallen angels were in chaos, building to civil war, and the Metatron was responsible. But all that bullshit about an epiphany and wanting to right old wrongs? A load of crap. Naomi wanted the same damn thing Bartholomew did, she just had a different approach.

A much, _much_ more effective one.

Claire shivered, then uncurled and slipped out to the bathroom to splash water on her face, and hopefully shake off the last traces of the dream.

Two things were certain, though--one, this would not be the last time angels tried to blackmail her in her dreams, if they really did have easy access like Bartholomew had said.

And Naomi was right about another thing. Claire and Nick had a lot of work to do. She wasn't the only empty vessel out there. And now that every angel in Creation was out hunting...

She took a deep breath, made sure her eyes weren't too red, then went back to keep watch over Nick. Once he woke up, she'd help him restabilize, and then they'd have to put _everything_ into the lines project.

She should probably also touch base with Sam and Dean. Or maybe Nick could. The Winchesters were probably on this from their end, too. Sharing information back and forth could only help. And the sooner the angels were forced back to Heaven, the better.

Claire curled up in the chair again, resting her chin on her knees, and watched Nick breathe. Hopefully, no one was trying to woo _him._

She sighed, and leaned back to stare at the ceiling instead, before she decided to try and wake him up. Because if he wasn't being wooed, he needed to sleep while he could.

Either way, it was going to be a long, _long_ year.


	27. Part 3, Chapter 2: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

They met Meg about five miles away from the bunker--however much she seemed to be on their side these days, however much she'd managed to win over _Claire,_ of all people, neither of them was about to bring her into their home. Especially with Kevin, and Crowley, and...

Well, Dean wasn't sure _how_ things with Zeke would go, which was why he'd tried to talk Sam into staying behind, but his brother had insisted on coming along.

They hadn’t seen her since the whole mess with Nick and the crypt and the tablet--they’d tried getting in touch after losing Abaddon, figuring they probably had a decent shot at curing her without too much resistance, but she hadn’t gotten back to them. And then things with Crowley had heated up, and by the time they finally _did_ reach her, the moment had passed.

She was still blonde--even if it had been Crowley's idea, before her escape, she apparently didn't care enough to dye it back. "Hey, boys. Do you have Crowley's head for me?"

"Not...exactly," Sam said.

She brightened. "Ooh, do I get to rip it off myself? Aw, you shouldn't have."

"Actually, we're, uh. We're keeping him around, for intel," Sam said.

Meg stared at him. "Wow. You're serious."

"What?"

"Are you _really_ that stupid? How many times is he gonna have to screw you before you wise up and _end_ the fucker?"

"Right now, he's more valuable alive," Dean said. "We got him tied up and trapped in our dungeon. It's all under control."

She laughed. "And you really think that'll hold him? He'll manage to find a way out, even if he can't do it by force. He's--what's the line? Sold sin to saints for centuries?"

"We can handle Crowley."

"Yeah, you keep saying that," she said. "And you keep letting him string you along. So forgive me if I'm not super-okay with the idea of him still fucking breathing, no matter _how_ cool your dungeon is."

She hadn't taken her eyes off Sam the entire time they'd been talking.

"We know what we're--why are you staring at me?" Sam asked.

"There's something--" Meg stopped. "Wait." She finally looked at Dean, eyes going black. "Why is there a fucking _angel_ here?"

Sam blinked. "What are you--"

His eyes flashed and his posture changed, Zeke abruptly straightening to bear down on the demon with all of his borrowed height. "Another word, demon, and I will smite you where you stand."

Meg bared her teeth at him. "You can try, angel. Who the fuck are you, anyway? You're not Lucifer."

Zeke glared at her. "Of course I am not."

"Then you have no fucking business being in Sam Winchester."

"Our arrangement is none of your concern."

"Arrangement?" Meg laughed. "He doesn't even know you're there! Come on, Dean, back me up here."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Meg, listen--"

"Wait--you're _in_ on this?"

"I didn't have a choice! Sam was _dying!_ "

"You are fucking _unbelievable,_ " she snapped. "He's possessing someone else's vessel, and _lying_ about it, and you _approve?_ "

"You did the same damn thing," he reminded her. "And you weren't trying to--"

"Okay, first of all, at the time, I wasn't exactly in the loop. Wings over there? Pretty sure he doesn't have that excuse. Also, I'm a fucking _demon,_ dumbass. It's different."

"Yeah, it is," Dean said. "Zeke's here to _help._ "

"So he claims. He's lying to Sam, how can you be sure he's not screwing _you,_ too?"

And there it was. She had a point--it wasn’t like Dean hadn’t asked himself the same damn question more than once.

"I _am_ here to help," Ezekiel said, quiet and sounding a little bit desperate. "Believe me, Dean. As I told you, all I want is safety, and to heal Sam."

"You know what?" Meg said, before Dean could respond. "Forget it. I don't really give a shit. I'm fucking done. Keep Crowley, let another angel take Sam, tell him he's a fairy fucking princess--whatever. I'm _done._ "

"Meg--"

"I've been backing you for years-- _years_ \--and you won't listen to me. You _never_ listen to me, no matter how many fucking times I go to bat for you. But some random angel shows up--"

"Cas vouched for him!"

"Sweet of him," she said. "I'm guessing Clarence doesn't know your new friend's genius plan. You might want to fill him in, see what he says then. As for me? I'm done trying to be your Token Evil Teammate. But thank you, anyway, for taking Crowley out of play. Just make sure you fucking keep him that way." She gave an exaggerated bow, then vanished.

"Fuck," Dean said. " _Fuck._ "

"I am sorry, Dean," Ezekiel said quietly.

"Just--" He held up a hand. "You _are_ telling me the truth, right, man? I got a lot riding on you, and she does kind of have a point."

Ezekiel looked wounded. "She is a demon. Demons lie."

"Yeah. I know." But he couldn't help thinking of Gabriel, of Zachariah, of Naomi, freaking _Metatron_ \--hell, even Cas, in his darkest hours. "So do angels."

He didn't deny that. "I answered your prayer for a reason, Dean," he said. "I am here to help."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Crap. How'd she even know you were there?"

"She was becoming aggressive," Ezekiel said. "And I am here to help and protect Sam, and you."

"I know," Dean said. And he couldn't really argue with that. Meg hadn't spotted Zeke 'til after she got pissed about Crowley.

"So I was closer to the surface than perhaps was wise," the angel concluded.

Dean nodded, then rubbed at his temples. "Okay. Fine. How do we explain this to him?"

Zeke considered. "I could erase everything after your arrival, and you can claim the demon never appeared."

_Then I'll have to figure out how to explain why she's pissed at us._ Which would be fun. But Zeke's idea was better than anything Dean could think of. He could hash out the details later. "Okay. Do it."

He nodded briefly, then closed his eyes and faded away.

Sam blinked, glanced back at the car, frowning a little, then shook his head. "She's late."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Or maybe she changed her mind. If she found out we have Crowley..."

"She'd be happy. She hates him."

"Except we have him alive," he pointed out.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "So, what, how long do we wait?"

"Hour or so?" Dean suggested. "If she's not here by then, she's probably ditched us and gone to take advantage of Crowley being gone and conquer Hell or something."

"Yeah."

So, they waited, and the hour ticked by slowly, and--thank freaking everything--Meg didn’t come back.

“Maybe Abaddon went after her,” Sam guessed, when the time was up, “and she’s laying low.”

“Could be,” Dean agreed.

“So, I guess we head back, wait for her to make contact again?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed again, and headed back to the car.

Sam fell into step behind him. It was sort of nice, the way he’d somehow started supplying his own explanations for the weirdness. Made things a little easier, at least in the short run.

_Wish he didn’t have to._

Well, it wouldn’t be forever. It would be over soon, and then they could all breathe a little easier, and he’d find a way to explain whatever he had to then. Once Sammy was no longer actively in danger. Which would be soon. It had to be. There was no way he and Zeke could keep this up much longer.

_Just a little bit longer,_ he reminded himself, as he got the car started. _Then everything will go back to normal._


	28. Part 3, Chapter 3: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

The day after the angels fell, Claire and Nick had tried to reach out to Dean and Sam, respectively. Claire hadn't gotten a response, but Nick had a day later. It wasn’t all that helpful, though; all Sam had said was, "We're okay, be in touch soon."

That had been three days ago, and they'd heard nothing since.

Claire decided they'd waited long enough at that point--especially since Nick was freaked enough that he was refusing to even leave his room. They needed answers, and unless she wanted to risk reaching out to Meg--or Naomi--Sam and Dean were their best shot.

Of course, a total stranger answering Dean's phone was less than helpful.

"Hello?"

"Sorry, wrong number," she said, then hung up. She knew she had the right number--or one of them, anyway--but she wasn't about to work with a total stranger on this.

Dean had given her a backup number, at least. It took her a few minutes to find the post-it she had it written down on, then she dialed again.

The same stranger's voice answered. "Hello?"

_Okay, what the hell, Dean._ She hesitated a second, then decided to gamble. "I'm looking for Dean Winchester."

"He's not here," the stranger said. "Who are you?"

"Claire. Who are you?"

"Wait, Claire? The girl with the vessels? You know Dean?"

Okay, _this_ she did not like. "How do you know so much about me?"

"Sorry, uh, Garth told me about you," the stranger said. "Uh. I'm Kevin. Dean left some of his phones here. He and Sam are off dealing with a demon thing."

Right away, she was pissed, and a little hurt and almost surprised. Garth had seemed so sweet and dependable when they’d met, and she and Nick sure as hell owed the scrawny hunter for bailing them out of serious trouble the way he had, right before they'd gone to Kermit. But all that aside, she was a little annoyed--okay, more than a little--that Garth had told a _stranger_ about her, and the work she and Nick did.

On the other hand, he _had_ saved their asses, and his hunter network was relatively reasonable, and good at pointing out hosts for them to help. And he probably wouldn't out her to someone dangerous. He _was_ a sweet guy. And dependable.

Okay, fine. When she heard from Garth again, she'd just yell at him, instead of punching him.

"Right. And of course he didn't take either of the phones I know," she said, realizing she'd been leaving this guy--Kevin--hanging for a while.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. ...so, how do you know Garth? Or Dean, for that matter?"

"Uh, Garth was sort of babysitting me for a while," Kevin said. "I'm a prophet."

"Wait, really? Like, dream divine revelations, turn them into dime novels, prophet?"

"Uh, no? I just read Word tablets." He paused. "What do you mean, dime novels?"

"That's what Chuck did," she explained. "The last prophet. Received divine revelations about the Apocalypse, turned them into trashy pseudo-horror novels. Most of the books are online, but some of them involve Sam and Dean having sex, so I'm not sure I recommend reading them." Though the hardest parts, for her, were _Rapture_ and all the parts dealing with Nick. Even _he_ had read those parts--but only those parts, the ones dealing with him and his body. He'd told her he needed to know without actually _remembering,_ but it still seemed a little masochistic to her. Which may have been a little bit condescending and/or hypocritical, but for all she’d read the books for context herself, at least _she_ didn’t have to read about...it just seemed like a lot of unnecessary self-flagellation to her.

Still, despite everything, it had seemed to help him, to have some more detail--or at least it hadn’t hurt, which was almost more important.

Kevin was silent for a moment. "Yeah, I think I'll pass on that." He took a breath, and changed the subject. "So, uh, what did you need Dean for? Maybe I can help."

"Just...all this crap with the angels falling." She sighed and flopped back. "Nick's gone into overdrive, trying to track down _all_ of the vessel lines, and it's probably too little too late, if everyone else untapped is having dreams like mine. We just...we wanted to know what was going on, or if there's anything more we can do."

"Yeah." Kevin sighed. "I'm working on the angel tablet, but it's slow going. I haven't found much about the spell that did this. Or how to reverse it. If it even can be."

Claire winced. "Don't say that."

"Sorry," he said. "What about your dreams?"

"Can't ward 'em," she said. "So stupid stalker angels are all I see."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it." She sighed again. "...I don't suppose your magic prophet powers gave you any way to help?"

"Sorry," he said. "I can look..."

She shook her head, the remembered he couldn't see her. "Nah. I mean, you don't have to look specifically for it. Sending them back to Heaven's way more important than me having a few less nightmares."

"All right. But I'll keep an eye out, anyway. I find weird crap on that thing all the time."

"Thanks," she said.

"And I'll let Dean know you called."

“Thanks,” she said again, and hung up with a sigh. That had been a total bust. Well, maybe not a _total_ one. Hopefully Dean would freaking call her back and give her some kind of actual, useful information. He knew she wanted it now, anyway.

And Kevin seemed nice. Very nice. And smart. And a prophet, which...well, of all the weird things in her life, that might not even rank the top ten.

Besides, maybe he could figure out a way to keep the angels out of her dreams.

That would be _awesome._

All in all, unexpected as he’d been, even if it was just to pass messages back and forth to Dean, Claire was sort of looking forward to getting a chance to talk to Kevin again.


	29. Part 3, Chapter 4: Meg

 

**Meg**

 

On the run and alone. Again.

The tension in the air was almost enough to make Meg regret breaking with the Winchesters.

Key word-- _almost._

Because...yeah, not really. Fucking dicks. If _she_ could put their war behind her and treat them with the fucking respect a powerful ally deserved, why the fuck couldn't _they?_ It wasn't like they'd been fighting that damn war even a _fraction_ of the time she had. Fucking _dicks._

And _then,_ Dean had sold Sam out, to an entity they could only trust by fucking word of mouth on a name he _claimed_ was his, with no fucking proof--an entity they had _no_ fucking history with at _all._ And the fact that the fucking entity had _agreed_ to take _Lucifer's vessel_ like that should have been a fucking _enormous_ red flag, not to mention the fucking _trespass_ involved there, and--

Fuck. Okay. Whatever. She was out. In every possible way, she was out of that whole mess. She was done--done with Lucifer and the Grand Plan, done with the Winchesters, just fucking _done._ What "Ezekiel" may or may not have gotten them mixed up in was not her fucking problem anymore.

Besides, whining about it more wouldn't do a fucking thing, except keep her pissed and distracted. Which she really couldn't fucking afford right now.

Because being out on her ass and friendless-- _again_ \--was a really fucking shitty experience, one she'd hoped not to have to deal with ever again. And obviously something had gone wrong with Castiel--even if she hadn't figured out exactly what yet--or he would have actually been with the Winchesters, and maybe talked Dean out of his latest fucking stupidity. So, she couldn't go to him for help.

And as creative as Claire had turned out to be, she wasn't the kind of ally Meg needed right now. Not by herself. And Nick was an asset to keep _away_ from other players, not someone she could depend on for the help she needed. And Tesriel had made it abundantly fucking clear he didn't give a shit, so she couldn't've called on him even if she'd wanted to.

So, alone and friendless, and who the fuck knew what Crowley's followers were up to with the King in chains. Plus, Abaddon was running around again, and--

And she was being followed. Of fucking course. Probably had been for hours. _Fuck._

Meg took a hard left into an alley. Chances were, she wouldn't be able to shake her tail, not when it had taken her that fucking long to pick up on it, but she could at least choose and control where the inevitable confrontation actually happened.

She picked up speed down the alley, and her pursuer's footsteps sped up in turn. By the sound of things, they'd figured out she'd noticed them. They weren't even fucking _trying_ to be discreet anymore.

There was a fence at the end of the alley, and she vaulted over it before turning right, then left, and left again. They were still on her, too damn close, and she couldn’t see any position that would give her advantage for the fight yet. Fuck.

She ducked into an abandoned building--high ground was usually helpful, and she knew her way around a close-quarters brawl--and made it all the way up the stairs before she figured it out.

Abaddon was waiting for her. She'd been _herded._ Fucking hell.

The Knight smirked at her. "You're losing your touch."

"Fuck you, Abaddon," Meg said. "What do you want?"

"An alliance," she replied.

She snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Oh, don't tell me you're backing _Crowley,_ " she said. "All the talk down in Hell is about how you want to rip him to pieces. I would really hate to have to kill so many of my sources."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Please."

"So, we should be allies."

"Uh-huh. Right. And by 'allies,'" she said, finger quotes and all, "I'm guessing you really mean I should bow down and fall in line?"

Abaddon laughed. "Of course. I am the Queen now."

Meg considered for a minute, sizing her up.

On the one hand, she _did_ need allies, powerful allies, and the Knights packed one hell of a punch. Abaddon, as the only one left, was the best chance to finally ice Crowley. And Crowley, fucking traitor that he was, _needed_ to be iced. Between Abaddon's sheer brute force and Meg's own grasp of tactics--plus her unwanted insight into the King's mind--yeah, an "alliance," such as it was, made a whole lot of fucking sense.

Of course, on the other hand, Meg had _never_ had a good experience teaming up with a Knight. Not long-term, anyway. And Azazel had never had much use for them, either, especially after Cain had gone AWOL and stopped reining them in. All chaos, no finesse. No long-range planning or strategy or dependability worth a damn.

Add to that the fact that Knights were fucking unfairly, _ridiculously_ overpowered--Meg was one of Azazel's oldest, and Abaddon one of Cain's last, so she was easily several times the Knight's age, but the smart bet in a straight fight would still be the younger demon--and the risk-reward analysis of this alliance was tipped _way_ fucking over towards "opposed."

So, the fact was, until Meg was fucking _positive_ she could either control or kill the Knight once Crowley was gone, there was no fucking way she could work with the bitch.

Of course, that left the problem of getting out of this room alive. Fuck.

Okay. There were two demons blocking the door behind her, and punching through them would mean turning her back on Abaddon which was just fucking _stupid._ But there was a window behind and slightly to the left of the Knight. If Meg could distract her for just a second or so, she could get to the window and dive out. Once she hit the ground, she could run and hide--she was fucking good at that, when she put her mind to it. Or at least she had plenty of fucking practice lately.

Very, very carefully, she shifted her weight back, ever so slightly telegraphing a move towards her weapon. “Sorry, Abaddon. But there’s not a lot of people I’ll take orders from, and you just don’t make the cut.”

Abaddon smiled. “What a shame,” she said. “I was looking forward to this.”

The guards on the door didn’t telegraph at all before they attacked--but Meg knew how fucking Knights operated, so she was prepared. She ducked and rolled, leaving them to stumble into each other. “Yeah, I can see why. You really need some better fucking minions.”

The Knight laughed, but Meg was pretty sure she’d take it out of the guards’ hides later. Oh, well, good riddance.

She came up in a crouch, just inches from the window. “Well, it’s been real. See you around.” She ducked under a ham-sized fist, stabbing up with her angel blade to kill its owner, then shifted her weight so the other demon broke the window for her. She smirked at Abaddon, saluted for good measure, then followed.

The whole thing was over in seconds, and Abaddon’s minion even broke her fall.

She picked herself up, made sure the other was fucking dead, and then disappeared into the shadows as fast as she could.

When no one caught up with her after an hour, she figured she’d got away clean. The immediate problem, at least, was solved.

Of course, now she’d made one hell of an enemy in Abaddon. And she’d thought the day had _started_ bad.

“Fuck,” she breathed. She needed allies--dependable allies--and _fast._ And she had no fucking clue where to find them.

Okay. With a little bit of luck, Abaddon would be too busy with fucking Crowley to put serious effort into finding her, but she wasn’t about to fucking depend on that. Either way, for now, all she could do was what she’d been doing--keep her head way the fuck down, stay on her toes, stay moving, stay ahead of the game.

This year was gonna _suck._


	30. Part 3, Chapter 5: Karl

 

**Karl**

 

For several days, Karl tried not to think about it. He made his way back home, gave his boss a weak excuse about a family emergency (if this was a genetic thing, like the scarred man had said, that wasn't exactly a lie, right?), and tried to fall back into his old routines.

It almost worked, too. Sure, the world seemed almost colorless, like something he'd never realized he needed was missing now. Or...no, wait, that wasn't quite right. But he felt...he just felt...

Disconnected, maybe. From everything. Like he was just sort of skimming the surface of life.

But he could work around that, at least. Or he'd managed so far, anyway. And it was almost easy to forget, sometimes; to pretend it was all a dream, or some sort of psychotic break or something. Even though he'd woken up in a hospital three states away, and he still remembered so much of it.

He just tried not to think about it. It was probably better not to think about it.

For two weeks, he managed to hold it together by keeping his focus on basic interactions, simple exchanges. Somehow, he kept going through the motions, and he was pretty sure no one had caught on.

But then, folded into his copy of _Les Miserables,_ he found a torn piece of notebook paper, with a website and a phone number scrawled on it.

_"You don't have to believe me," the scarred man had said. "Not now, at least. But if an angel does come for you, in a lucid dream or whatever, believe it then."_

Karl stared at the phone number for a long moment. It seemed like a lifetime ago, that dead night in the bar when the scarred man had finally spoken to him. Had warned him about this.

Before he could overthink it and change his mind, he grabbed his phone and dialed.

It rang four times before sending him to an anonymous voicemail.

"Uh, hi," he started. "Look, um, I don't know if you remember me, or--or if I read the number wrong, or...um, anyway, I'm Karl. You came into my bar a couple months back and told me--um, anyway, you were right. And...you were right, and I could...uh, I could use someone to talk to. So, um, if you could call me back when you get a chance, I'd really appreciate it. My number is 405-555-6293. Thanks."

He hung up and set the phone down. After a minute or so, he realized he was staring at it; almost as if he expected it to ring right away.

He shook his head and picked up his book, trying to focus on it instead. It actually worked, if only because Hugo's prose was dense enough--and went on enough tangents--that otherwise he'd lose the thread of the novel. He was even focused enough on his book that, an hour later, when his phone finally rang, it made him jump.

He checked the screen, and the call was from the same number he'd dialed.

"Hello?" he said, after picking up.

"Hi," the scarred man's soft voice replied. "Is this Karl?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it is. I, um. I didn’t get your name, before?"

He hesitated for a minute, then said. “You can call me N.” Which...okay, fair enough, Karl kind of understood why N might not want to give his full name.

“Okay.”

“I got your message,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

He blinked. “Uh...I don’t...I guess what happened?”

“If you want.”

“I guess some people don’t?”

“Not everyone does,” he confirmed. “For some people, it’s...easier for them to move past it, if they don’t.”

“Oh.” He fell silent for a minute, then said. “I don’t...I want to talk about it. I mean, with someone who…”

“Someone who’s been there?”

He nodded. “Uh. Yeah.” He took a breath. “It was...it was like you said, I had a...I guess you could call it a lucid dream, and there was a light, a person made out of light, and he said he needed my help. And I...I know you said to ask questions, but I didn’t…I didn’t actually...he said he needed help, and I said I would.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” the scarred man said. “Whatever happened between the two of you, whatever he asked or offered...it’s between you and him. Everyone...everyone’s reasons seem good at the time, even if they regret it later.”

“Okay,” he said. “Good.”

“When did this happen?”

“Um. Not long ago? Just...it was a couple weeks ago. Right after that giant meteor shower.” Karl had gotten up and started pacing at some point, because it felt a little bit better to be moving. Besides, with the phone on speaker, he could hear just fine, and the scarred man hadn't complained or asked him to repeat anything. "I...uh, I still can't really believe it all happened. Except I woke up in a hospital, miles away, and he was...he was gone, but there was no other way I could have gotten there. It’s just...I don’t know what...things stopped making _sense,_ sort of, like I can’t...I can’t fit this into the way the world is supposed to be, or something."

"Yeah, I get that."

“I was sure that…” Karl trailed off, trying to figure out how to word it. Because the scarred man’s angel had left him, too--after seriously messing him up, so it wasn’t the same, but… “I mean, when he...when I had the dream, like you said, I sort of got the impression it was a one-way trip, except then he just...I just...woke up. I don’t think it was more than two or three days, and he was just...”

"It...is a little weird," N said slowly. "Even at the best of times, most angels don't release their vessels willingly. And right now..."

Karl’s heart sank a little bit, because if that _wasn’t_ normal, then something must have...he didn’t know what. "I don't..." He closed his eyes, thinking back to the battered, confused, terrified angel who had begged for his help. It just didn't make _sense_ that he'd left, when Karl was offering him a safe haven of sorts. Because that was at least part of how this thing worked, wasn't it? "He was...he was _scared._ I don't know, maybe I did something wrong."

"I don't think so," N said, and Karl could hear him frowning. "There isn't really...in most cases, there isn't much wrong a vessel _can_ do. We don't have...we don't have that much control. I mean, in theory, I guess consent can be revoked, but I've never...that doesn't happen. We don't have that much control."

"Yeah, I didn't...I didn't do that," he said. "I just...woke up, and he was gone."

He was quiet for a minute. "You sound like...you sound like you miss him." The way he said it was neutral, and completely without judgment, but with a faint hint of surprise. Like _that_ was even less normal than how quickly the angel had come and gone.

Karl blinked. He hadn't quite thought of it that way, but... "I don't know," he said. "Just...he was scared, and I really wanted to help him. And..." He hesitated. "I don't know. A part of me does, I guess."

"So, if he came back to you, you'd let him in again?"

"Yeah," Karl said, without even having to think about it. "Yeah, I would. Would you?"

As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back--of course N wouldn't; the angel had scarred him to hell and back and clearly left all kinds of invisible damage beneath the surface, too.

But N just said, "Even if I wanted to, trying to hold him again would probably kill me. I wasn't...I'm one of the times when a vessel does do something wrong, because I wasn't...I wasn't built for him, and that...I've never...it's not really the kind of thing you heal from. Not all the way. But..." He trailed off.

Karl blinked. "So...you miss him, too?"

"No. I don't. I don't. I just...except...it's...I...it's complicated."

He let that hang for a minute, thinking. "Is it...does it feel weird, not having another voice in your head?" he guessed. And, even if he hadn't been able to articulate it until just then, and even if the only actual interaction he'd had with his angel had been saying yes in the first place, that was it. That was _exactly_ it. He was _lonely_ now, without the angel.

Worse than lonely. _Empty._

"I..." N trailed off. "Mostly, it just hurt. When he was with me. And he either ignored me or locked me in a dream, and he...I frustrated him. I was...I was the reason everything went wrong."

"Because you weren't built for him?" Karl guessed.

"Yeah.” He paused, and, with obvious effort, went on. “But I keep...I keep _feeling_ things, or--or more like there’s shadows on things I feel that I don’t think are...I don’t think they’re _mine,_ and I feel like if I had him there to help sort through it, I could...and my thoughts...my thoughts...they _echo_ now. It's...I mean, it's better, or at least it hurts less, and I’m not...I’m not being used for...but it..."

"Something's missing."

"Yeah. Something..." He sighed. "I don't...sorry, I don't usually talk about...sorry. You called me, normally I just listen."

"No, it's--I want to help," Karl said. "That's why I...he needed help."

"Yeah." Another quiet moment, then N seemed to have a little more control over...whatever the hell was going on in his head. "It feels...alone, being dispossessed. Believe me, I know. No matter how awful the actual experience was...after, it feels alone. But you're _not_ alone, okay? I'm here, and--do you still have the website I gave you?"

"Uh, yeah." Karl pulled the post-it out again.

"You should go there," he said. "There's...well, not a lot of us. Maybe a dozen or so ex-vessels, and a couple hundred ex-hosts."

"Hosts?" Karl asked.

"Demon possession," N clarified.

"...right. Of course. That's...that's a thing, too."

"Yeah. Um. Anyway, you should go there. And you can always call me. It's...this is what I do."

Karl could recognize someone fleeing a conversation when he heard it, and--well, he had the forum link, and he felt a little more solid now, that there was someone else who...if not feeling the _exact_ same way he did, at least was somewhere in the ballpark.

But, obviously, something he’d said, or something about the way the conversation had gone, more likely, had upset the scarred man. Which...well, there were good parts and bad parts to being in the ballpark, he guessed. “I will,” he said. “And...thanks, for...for listening.”

“Of course,” N said, almost but not quite covering how relieved he was that Karl was giving him a graceful exit. “I’ll look for you there, okay? And we can talk more.”

“All right. Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

Karl put his phone down and picked his book up, and something unknotted at the base of his spine. The forum was out there, and he hadn’t done anything wrong--it was just something weird that had happened. Maybe, if his angel ever came back, he could ask.

But at least--at least he knew, for sure, that he wasn’t alone.


	31. Part 3, Chapter 6: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

For what felt like the thousandth night in a row, Claire clawed her way up out of angel-filled dreams, her heart pounding, on the edge of tears. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from whimpering or crying out loud. Nick was sick--he had been for a couple weeks, and she really didn't want to wake him up. Especially since a quick glance at her alarm clock said it was 2:14 AM.

She managed to calm herself down--or at least shake off the dream enough that she was quiet about her distress--after a couple minutes, but getting back to sleep was not in the cards. They'd just start hassling her again as soon as she was deep enough to dream.

Claire took a deep breath and wiped her eyes--okay, so she actually _had_ started crying. Great.

Okay. She needed to _do_ something, distract herself, feel less...pressured, or powerless, or whatever. The wards, okay. She could check the wards.

She slid out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Just as she reached it, she heard Nick start coughing again and winced a little. He really sounded like crap. This stupid cold of his was dragging on forever, and she was pretty sure he was actually getting worse, not better.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much she could do about it, until Mom decided he was sick enough to override his fears.

Claire waited until the fit had passed, then carefully nudged her door open. She'd give the house a quick walkthrough, checking all the wards and the salt lines and--

Why was Nick's light on?

She hesitated--she probably shouldn't bug him, but if he was awake anyway...Plus, someone should try to get him to go back to bed. Yeah. Okay. That was more productive than just checking the wards again.

Her mind made up, Claire slipped down the hall and tapped lightly on Nick's door.

He answered after a few seconds, paler and shakier than he had been before going to bed. He was gripping the door just a little bit tighter than she liked, as if he needed it for support.

He blinked a couple times. "Claire?" he rasped. "What're you doing up?"

"I could ask you the same question," she pointed out.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, then turned away, coughing again.

She frowned. "We have some cough syrup somewhere, do you want me to--?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Took some earlier. Not h-helping much." He wobbled and grabbed the door a little tighter.

"Oh," she said, then bit her lip. "Look, at least sit down or something, okay? I don't want you to pass out."

"Not _that_ dizzy," he said, but he listened to her anyway, staggering over to his desk chair and half-collapsing into it, coughing again.

Claire followed him, more worried by the second. She could hear him breathing, even between fits, and his eyes were all glassy and he could barely stand, and...

_Maybe I should get Mom. I think he's hit that physical-beats-mental milestone…_

"Never said why...you were awake," he said. "Dreams again?"

"Yeah," she said, slumping a little.

"Could call...Kevin again," he suggested.

She flushed. "No, um, he's busy. If he finds anything else about dream warding, he has my number." Hoping for a subject change--the last thing she wanted to talk to Nick about was her ridiculous crush on the Prophet, because _seriously_ she’d talked to him all of, like, twice, what the _hell_ brain--she focused on his papers. "Did you find another line?"

"Think so," he said. "Figured I'd...work since I c-couldn't--"

More coughing.

"I'm gonna get you some water at least, okay?" Claire said.

He nodded, visibly fighting for air, one hand pressed against his chest.

_Not good._ "Does your chest hurt?"

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

_Very not good._ "Okay, I'm gonna go get Mom." Not that his fears of hospitals and sedation and so on weren't totally, one hundred percent valid and deserved to be worked around, but the whole not-breathing-and-chest-pains thing outweighed them.

"Claire--" he started.

She turned and stared at him.

"...water first?"

"Okay," she said.

He wasn't arguing, and he _had_ to know Mom would drag him to get medical help. This was _.really, really bad._

Claire got him the water as quick as possible, then knocked on Mom's bedroom door.

She answered in seconds, dousing Claire with holy water, as always. Never mind that they were all anal about wards and salt, and she'd snuck out and copied Dean's tattoo a year ago, right after meeting him--she never objected. Better safe than sorry. Always.

"Sorry, I know it's late, but Nick's having real trouble breathing and he says his chest hurts and he didn't argue when I said I was going to go wake you up."

Mom nodded. "Okay. I'll be right there. Stay with him."

"Yeah." She went back to Nick's room.

He was right where she'd left him, slumped in his desk chair, eyes closed, wheezing.

"You awake, Nick?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," he said. "Just dizzy."

Mom joined them before Claire could respond. She'd brought the thermometer, and the cough syrup, and her purse--clearly she thought there was a chance they were going to have to get Nick to help right now, rather than wait until morning.

"S'not gonna...tell you much..." Nick pointed out, eyeing the thermometer. Which was true, his temperature was always all over the map--most of the time he ran hot, but every so often it would plummet with no warning and for no obvious reason, sometimes taking a couple days to go back to normal. Or what passed for normal with him.

"I know."

He complied anyway, without any further argument, visibly struggling to breathe steady and not start coughing and lose it.

From that point, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion--not that Claire really expected different once she’d gotten Mom, but still.

They dragged Nick into the ER, and were left waiting for another hour, because that was how ERs worked. At least he didn't freak out too much, until the doctor had confirmed he'd need to be admitted.

And then he just...stopped.

The beeping from the monitor sped up and his eyes went blank. He didn't try to pull off the oxygen mask, he just went still, so still.

Mom caught on quick, and took over distracting the ER doctor, pulling her aside with an offhand remark about 'my brother doesn't like hospitals,' then following up with question after question about forms and procedure, staying just this side of obviously stalling. Mom was good at that part. At handling the mundane crap.

Claire shifted over to the other side of the ER bed, trying to catch and hold Nick's eyes. "It's okay," she said. "It's gonna be okay. Mom and I aren't gonna let anything happen to you. Ever again. You know that, right?"

He didn't answer, staring right past her at nothing, his breaths shallow and ragged and almost-but-not-quite building into another coughing spasm.

"I know you're scared, but it's not like...it'll only be for a couple days, okay? You'll get better and we'll take you home and...and it's not the same, you know that, right?"

Still nothing.

She shifted tactics. _Okay. Okay, obviously I started too deep too fast, focus on the surface things first. He's not bleeding, at least not that either of us can see, so that can't be it._ "Please, Nick, tell me what you need. Is it--are you cold?" she guessed. "I know you get scared when it's cold. And, you know we can fix that, right? I mean, we're in a hospital, there's gotta be extra blankets somewhere..."

His left hand twitched a little. Response! She was getting somewhere.

"Okay. Okay, I'll go...I'll go figure out who to ask for another blanket. You'll be okay, Nick, you know that, right? It's all gonna be okay."

He ran his thumb along the base of his finger, shivered, and closed his eyes, coughing again.

Claire wanted nothing more than to stab Crowley through the eye, host or no host.

_That won't solve anything. Okay. I need a--something hard, smooth, metal, something that's close enough to ground him even if it's not the same._ After a few seconds' scrambled thought, she took off her necklace and placed her cross in Nick's hand. "Here, try this. It's not the same, I know it's not the same, 'cause it's...please, let this help." Daddy had given it to her when she was confirmed, right before Castiel had come into their lives. It wasn't _his_ comfort, but it was hers, and they loved each other, so maybe...maybe...

After a heartbreaking second or two, his fingers slowly closed around her cross, and the beeping slowed, grew less frantic.

She slumped, relieved. "Nick?"

He blinked a little, and looked up at her.

She smiled. "Tell me what you need, okay?"

He closed his eyes and shivered again. "Get me out of here," he whispered, taut and hoarse and desperate, and a little piece of her heart broke.

"As soon as we can," she promised. _We should have overrode him sooner, then it wouldn't've gotten this bad and he wouldn't have to_ stay...

Mom came back, with a nurse this time. The nurse was doing that bright-and-cheery thing that was clearly designed to set someone skittish at ease and just as painfully obviously would _never_ work. But Nick just kept holding onto Claire's cross, and didn't resist or start to panic or shut down again.

"How is he?" Mom asked quietly, falling in next to Claire.

"He's still pretty freaked," she said. "I gave him my necklace. That seemed to calm him down at least a little."

She nodded. "I talked them into letting us stay with him, so he won't be alone."

"Good," she said.

The nurse kicked the two of them out so she could finish admitting Nick, promising that she'd call them back in as soon as she was done. Claire leaned against the wall, eyes closed. She absently reached to fiddle with her necklace--it was so easy to forget how often a nervous tic presented itself.

_Get me out of here._

_We need to find our way back._

Her eyes snapped open, and she bit her lip, and then let them fall closed again.

_Naomi,_ she prayed, _Naomi, I can't fix this by myself. I need your help. You said--you said you wanted to make up for whatever, well...I'm ready to give you a chance. Please. Help me._

She opened one eye.

There was no sign of the angel.

She sighed, and let her hands drop again.

"You can go in now," the nurse told them.

“Thank you,” Mom said, and led the way in.

Nick had passed out, or maybe been sedated--Claire really hoped he hadn’t been, and she was pissed just thinking about the possibility. Not at the hospital--well, sort of at them, but if he’d been panicking maybe they had to--but at herself and Mom for…

They _really_ should have done something sooner.

“Do you want to stay up, or try to get some more sleep?” Mom asked, after picking one of the chairs and settling in herself.

“I don’t know,” Claire said, claiming the other and drawing her knees up to her chest.

“Then try to sleep,” she decided. “You woke up before I did anyway.”

“Yeah, okay.” She didn’t really think there was much chance of that, but she really didn’t want to argue. Because arguing about the stupid things would just bring up the important ones, and she just...couldn’t deal with that right now.

Despite her misgivings, though, Claire did finally doze off in the hospital room chair after about an hour. When she did, she found her dreams surprisingly quiet--only Naomi was waiting for her.

"You came," she said, not quite sure what to think about that.

"Of course I did," Naomi said. "I told you, I want to help you."

"Yeah, you did say that," Claire said.

The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes. Claire imagined she could still hear Nick's ragged breathing, or Mom turning a page in her book, even though that, at least, hadn't carried over into the dream.

"What do you need?" Naomi asked gently.

She hesitated for a moment. "Could you...could you heal him?" She was pretty sure Naomi would know exactly which "him" she meant, and given how Nick was...

Asking out loud felt...she didn't quite know how it felt, but not good, that's for sure.

Naomi considered for a moment. "I can cure his illness, but it'll take me a couple of days to reach you--Metatron broke all of our wings when he cast us out. And I can't heal the rest of his wounds. There are some things even we can't fix."

That was still something. But...on the other hand... "Is he dying?" she asked.

"I can't tell unless I see him," the angel answered. "I will come, and I will do what I can, if that's what you really want."

Claire stared at her. "I can't lose him," she said flatly.

Naomi nodded. "Then say the word, and I'll leave your dream and find a car."

"Why are you hesitating?" she asked.

"Why are you?"

She knew the answer. She just didn't want to say it out loud. "He's...he'd be afraid of you. Angels scare him, more than demons."

"And you're afraid if you ask an angel to heal him, he'll never forgive you."

Claire looked down at the ground and nodded. "I can't lose him," she said again.

"So, you have a choice to make," Naomi said.

"Yeah," she said, and closed her eyes.

She thought about it, for a long moment--either way, she risked losing everything important in her life. Because Mom didn't like angels any more than Nick did. Even if Nick never figured it out--and he would, because she would tell him, she would have to tell him--she couldn't keep it from her mother. So, bringing an angel in on this would piss everyone off.

On the other hand, if Nick was worse off than they thought, if he was...

"I think..." she started, then swallowed.

"Yes?" Naomi prompted gently.

"...can you start this way? If he's...I'll figure out how to deal with the fallout if you're the only way to save him. But if he's not...I'll know before you get here, right?"

"Probably," the angel agreed.

"So...so I'll have time to call this off."

"Yes."

Claire hesitated again.

"Is that what you want me to do?" Naomi asked, after a moment.

"...please?" she said. "I can't...I can't lose him, Naomi."

The angel watched her for a moment, then cautiously approached. The room lightened a little, sunbeams drifting through the window, and the bed was empty. Naomi perched on the edge of it, facing her, so they were a little more on the same level. "Is there something you want to talk about, Claire?"

_Not with you,_ she wanted to snap, but at the same time--at the same time, Naomi was _helping_ her. And even if Castiel had lied to her, years ago...well, she had no reason to think that _this_ angel was lying.

Crap. A part of her still _believed._ Faith really sucked sometimes.

"I just..." She took a shaky breath. "I built this whole life, you know? A-and the forum, and everything, and...I couldn't've done it without him. I mean, he builds the trees, he's the one who knows the wards, he's the one who...I wouldn't've even _thought_ of it without meeting him. Everything...e-everything good in my life that doesn't come from Mom, comes from him. And it's a _good_ life. We do good things together."

Naomi just nodded.

"E-except when I put it like that--just like that...it feels like...I feel like I'm just...I'm just u-using him, like I'm...like I'm just as awful to him as..." She couldn't say it. She couldn't say it, because it _couldn't_ really be--it _couldn't._

"You're not," she said, firmly. "Claire, you love him, very much. Anyone who knows how to look can see that. And it's not just for what he can do for you and your network. You know that."

"Of _course_ it isn't," she snapped.

Naomi held up her hands. "Claire, listen to me. Your friend is ill, and you're frightened and desperate. You're picking over everything you've ever done with him, for him, to try and figure out who to blame. And that means you're finding things that you may or may not have done wrong. And because you're afraid, and because it’s sometimes easier to deal with bad situations when there’s someone to blame, even if that someone is yourself, those things seem larger than they really are."

"I guess," she said.

The angel smiled at her. "You're a good person, Claire. A good friend. You want what's best for him. If you didn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You either wouldn't have called at all, or you wouldn't be having these doubts."

That...that felt right. Or, at least, it made a little bit of the sickening feeling at the pit of her stomach go away. "Okay."

"Okay."

"How can...um, how should I get in touch with you, if I change my mind?"

"The same way you did earlier," Naomi said. "Just pray to me, by name."

"I will."

The angel smiled, and stood up. "I'll find a car. I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"Thank you," Claire said. "And..."

"Yes?"

"...thank you."

Her smile deepened a little, and something flickered in her eyes before she bowed her head. "You're welcome."

Claire blinked, and she could hear the monitors again.

“Claire?” Mom called, softly.

“I’m fine. Just a dream,” she said, then shifted position. “I can stay up, if you want to try and sleep.”

Mom eyed her for a minute, then nodded. “All right. Wake me up if Nick does, okay?”

“I will,” she promised, then settled in to watch him breathe and try not to think too hard about what would happen when Naomi came.

_It beats the alternative,_ she told herself. She just prayed--no, she _wished,_ desperately, that she would be able to call it off, before everything fell apart around her.


	32. Part 3, Chapter 7: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

Nick had been home for all of three hours, and was finally calm enough to start to doze off, when his phone buzzed. He jumped, jerking fully awake, then started coughing again.

Amelia had brought him home as soon as he was stable enough to be off oxygen and IV meds, but he was still dizzy, still coughing, still supposed to stay in bed. And she’d decided that part of why things had gotten so bad was that he’d driven himself into the ground, chasing vessel lines to get to them before the angels did--he was just glad no angels were hassling him, the way they were after Claire; he wasn’t sure if it was the damage from before that made him unsuitable, or if it was just that no other angel wanted to go where...yeah. But, to keep him from going overboard like that again, Amelia had confiscated his laptop.

His phone, though, she had deemed only a minor distraction. Apart from her and Claire, only about four people had his number. None of them would be calling him, unless it was some kind of emergency.

He reached over as soon as he caught his breath, and just barely managed to beat his voicemail.

"'Lo?"

"Sorry, Nick, I didn't--did I wake you?"

Sam. Right. Okay.

"S'okay," he said. "Wasn't all the way asleep."

"I...I didn't know who else to call, and I need to talk to--you weren't on the forum, I checked there first, so I thought..."

"Yeah, Amelia took my laptop," he said, then swallowed the urge to cough. "What's wrong?" He sat up, hoping he didn't miss anything due to the movement-induced vertigo, because it was slightly easier to breathe that way.

"...a long story," Sam was saying. "If you...if you want me to call back in the morning, I can, you don't sound very--"

"No, I'm good," he lied. Sam wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important. Their voices didn't set each other off, not like face-to-face meetings, but text-only was still much, _much_ less stressful for both of them. "Start from the beginning?"

"Um. Well, you know how things have been...weird for me, since the Trials?"

"Yeah. Hang on, I'm gonna put you on speaker so I don't have to hold the phone."

He missed Sam's response, breaking into a coughing fit that left him gasping.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam was asking, when Nick finally caught his breath.

"Getting there," he said. "I guess you found out what was going on?" It had sounded like possession when they’d discussed it before--missing time, apparent teleportation, and similar problems--but Sam had tested himself, multiple times, and hadn't said yes to anyone since Detroit. And Nick would have _known_ if their angel was back.

"Yeah. Um. Dean made a bargain."

"With a demon?"

"No. An angel. Gadreel. His name was...that was his name." Sam took a deep, shaky breath. "They lied to me. Tricked...tricked me into saying yes, then...then made me forget. For months. Gadreel kept wiping...wiping everything."

A thousand thoughts spun through Nick's head. Most were, he hoped, the right ones--nausea at what the angel had done, shock that it was even _possible,_ horror at Dean's role in it...even the faint trace of relief, that at least Sam knew what was wrong now, even that felt correct.

And then...

And then, like a memory seared into his bones, he felt a murderous, glacial rage building, pushing his pulse and breath faster, and he had to shut it down--it was terrifying, and painful, painful just like...just like...and he had to make it dissipate, somehow, or he would...or he would...

"Nick?"

He wrenched his finger and took a deep a breath as he could, trying to calm himself down, which naturally changed to coughing again after half a second.

"Nick?" Sam said. "Nick, are you--?"

"I'm...f-fine," he gasped. "S-sorry, I j-just...all I can...can think about is...is h-how _pissed_ he'd be that...that another...another angel..." He was seeing stars now, _damn_ it. He had water, at least, that would help, he just needed...just needed a minute.

After a few seconds of horrified silence from the other end of the line, he heard Sam let out a sharp breath of his own. "He would. He would be so freaking pissed. Shit, I never..."

"Sorry," Nick managed to croak out. "I couldn't...I'm sorry, that's not the...I just couldn't _not_ think about it."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Nick said again, after he finally got his breathing back under control. "For...bringing that...for saying that. And for what happened."

"Thanks," Sam said. "I just...I don't know what the hell to _do_ now."

"About Gadreel?"

He could practically hear Sam shaking his head. "About Dean."

"Oh." Yeah. That was...that was one hell of a question.

"I mean...I know why he did it. And I get it, but..."

"Does it matter why?" Nick asked.

"Shouldn't it? He was trying to save me."

"Sure." He needed to cough again. "Doesn't mean you--you don't get--get to be pissed." This would be going so much better if he could just _breathe._

"Are you sure you're okay to talk about this now?" Sam asked.

" _Yes,_ Sam," Nick said, hoping he didn't actually sound as annoyed as he felt. "I would tell you if I wasn't." Which...okay, that felt like a lie as soon as he said it, because this was _Sam,_ and even the idea of refusing Sam, for whatever reason, felt _wrong,_ almost shameful.

"Okay." Sam sighed, and thankfully didn't push. "I just...I wouldn't've said yes if I knew. You know that."

"Yeah."

"I...if he'd found another way to save me...I mean...I was ready to die. But at the same time..."

"Ready and willing doesn't mean you actively want it." God knew _he_ knew the difference.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I think...I think I'm more pissed about the lying for months part. Is that...that shouldn't be the worst part, should it?"

"You--hang on--" He broke off coughing again. At least this time, Sam just waited for him to finish. "You can be pissed about the possession, or the lying, or...you get to decide what the worst part is."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam said. "But...I just...he was trying to _save_ me, you know? And the last time...the last time he died..."

"So you feel guilty?"

"I feel disloyal."

Nick closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, Sam absolutely had no reason to feel guilty or disloyal. But he couldn't tell him that, not in so many words, anyway. Sam had just as much right to his guilt as to his anger. "All I'll say is it doesn't make you a bad person if you're pissed. And it doesn't make you a hypocrite if you forgive him later."

"If I didn't think he'd do the same damn thing again, forgiving him wouldn't be so hard. Even after Kevin..."

"Kevin?"

"Gadreel killed him. I still...I...I close my eyes, and I see him, burning under my hand, and I just..."

Nick flinched. That...the more he heard about this mess Dean had made--however well-intentioned--the more he...

 

  
_The golden angel lies broken and smoking at his feet, layers of faces and wings fading through the fragile human shell and then--gone._

_For the first time in what feels like forever, he is conscious. Every detail is crystal clear and sharp, from the lights shimmering above him to the steady drip-drip-drip of blood trailing down his fingers to the soft, keening grief/regret forming a counterpoint to the agony singing along his skin, down every nerve ending, echoed by_

_'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I wanted you with me, how could you choose_ them _over_ me, _Gabriel, Gabriel, forgive me, please forgive me, I asked you not to make me do it, I begged...'_

_The pain and the grief and the shock and the lights and the drip-drip-drip of the blood bore into him, carving this moment into his heart and soul, and he weeps, he weeps with his angel and he doesn't know why, only that it_ hurts, _oh God it hurts and he--_

 

"Nick!" Sam's voice finally penetrated his fog. He sounded frantic.

"S-sorry--" he started, then coughed again, deep and harsh, bad enough that he saw stars again. "Sorry, I was...I was somewhere else for a minute. I'm sorry. I'm here now. I'm okay."

He could still feel the blood, climbing to his elbow and gracefully sliding down.

"Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh. Sorry. Um. You said you think he'd do it _again?_ " He didn’t want to--maybe he should, ask about the nightmares, but…

He rubbed anxiously at his fingers, reassuring himself they weren’t wet or sticky.

He _should_ ask about the nightmares, and if he were a better friend, he would, but there was too much remembered blood on his hands for him to--if Sam wanted to go back there, he’d follow, of course he’d follow, but he wouldn’t...he _couldn’t_ lead things that way. He was afraid he’d check out again. Better to stay focused on what he maybe _could_ help with, right?

For a moment, Sam didn’t answer, and Nick was half-afraid he’d refuse to follow the subject change, and keep pressing for what was wrong with _Nick,_ when that was the last thing they should be discussing, but finally he sighed and said, "Yeah. He said he would, anyway. And he...he does stuff like that all the time. Or...he's done it before, more than once, for...for years, he's been--It's...it's hard to explain, but...I don't think he gets that Kevin's...as...as awful as...as much as I...I don’t think he gets that I'm pissed about more than that."

"Okay." Nick considered for a minute. "What I think is...if you want my advice, I think you should...if you want to try and forgive him, I think you should probably tell him _exactly_ why you're pissed, and build from there."

"Yeah. Okay. That makes sense." Sam paused. "I should try to forgive him, shouldn't I?"

"That’s up to you," Nick said.

"Would you? I mean, if it was Claire, or-or Amelia...would you forgive them?"

He considered. "I don't...I don't know," he admitted. "I...I don't have many friends, and the two of them are...without them, I don’t...I don't think I could...I need to not be alone. But...but getting possessed again..." He closed his eyes, willing the mental image of the golden angel, dead at his feet, to retreat again. "So I don't know."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I should...I should let you get back to sleep. You sound really sick."

"I’m getting better," he insisted, then, right on cue, started coughing again.

"Okay," Sam said, and Nick could hear the doubt in his voice. "Take...take care of yourself, okay? And...thanks."

"Any time," Nick said. "Talk to you soon, yeah?"

"Yeah. Good night."

"'Night."

Sam hung up, and Nick set his phone down, shivering a little. He was still reeling, from the horror that had been done to Sam, and all it had called up in him. He just hoped he hadn’t botched things too badly, and had managed to, if not give good advice, at least not say anything that made things worse.

And his hands still felt bloody.

_God._

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to calm down enough to sleep now. He picked up his phone again to text Amelia. “Can you come sit with me for a while? Can’t be alone right now.”

She didn’t text back, but less than a minute later she tapped on his door before coming in. “What happened?” she asked, getting his desk chair and sitting next to the bed.

He hesitated a few seconds, not sure how much he wanted to say--or even should, since it was Sam’s story, not his. “...Sam called,” he finally said. “Some...some stuff happened, with Dean.” He started coughing again, and she handed him his water.

“Anything you can talk about?”

He shook his head. “Sam’s story, not mine,” he said, when he’d caught his breath. “Just...it made me...reminded me…” He scrubbed at his hands again, wishing, for the umpteenth time, that he still had his ring to ground him.

Amelia reached out and very gently caught his hands, without saying anything. She didn’t have to. She knew how it felt, knowing your body had been used to do horrible things.

He shivered and closed his eyes. “Stay with me?”

“As long as you need,” she promised.

He kept his eyes closed and focused on breathing, on being empty but not alone, on being warm and free for more than five years. And, with his sister there to help, it almost worked. Or at least he stopped shaking after a while.

But when he finally passed out, somewhere close to three in the morning, he could still feel the blood on his hands.


	33. Part 3, Chapter 8: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

After a long week of searching, Dean had exactly zero leads on Zeke-- _Gadreel._ The angel’s real name was Gadreel.

Everything he’d tried had been a freaking dead end. It would’ve helped, maybe, if he’d bothered to find out the son of a bitch’s other vessel’s name--assuming he’d even gone back to him and not just found someone else to fuck over--but at first it hadn’t been important, and by the time it was…

So, he did what he always did when he hit a dead end--found a bar that suited his mood, ordered a shot or three of whatever whiskey caught his eye, and went over everything in his head again, keeping one ear out for interesting rumors.

Except, instead of hearing rumors, he heard a damn familiar voice over by the pool tables.

“Fair is fucking fair, loser. Pay up.”

He looked up sideways to see Meg, her leather jacket draped over a barstool next to her, staring down a drunk easily twice her size.

_Shit._ This was exactly what he needed--another problem, another damn maybe-ally the damn Gadreel mess had pissed off.

Though, to be fair, she was only _recently_ a maybe-ally, and it had taken a hell of a lot of bigger fish to put her in that position. If she caused trouble, he could handle it. Might even be nice, blow off some steam and clear his head or whatever.

She got her winnings from the guy she’d suckered, then caught sight of Dean and blinked, before giving him a smile, collecting her jacket, and wandering over.

Dean shifted just a little, pulling out the knife and holding it carefully, just out of sight from any casual observers, but he knew she’d see it.

She rolled her eyes. “Really, Dean? That’s not very nice.”

“You’re the one who told me to go fuck myself last time I saw you,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, and?” She slid onto the stool next to him and signaled for a drink. “There’s a difference between ‘go fuck yourself’ and ‘I see you again, I’ll fuck your shit up.’”

“...right.”

“So, what are you doing here? And all alone, too.”

Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to admit Meg had been right about Gadreel. Not to her face, anyway.

“None of your business,” he said stiffly instead.

“Fine, whatever.”

“So, you play pool now?” he asked, after she’d tossed back a shot and ordered another, without saying anything.

She shrugged. “I needed cash for booze, and stealing gets boring after a while.”

“Seriously?”

“What can I say?” she said, with a crooked grin. “I’m a girl who likes her simple pleasures.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Meg?”

“Who says I want anything?”

“You’re the one who came up to me.”

“You were staring,” she said. “And not at my boobs, which was kind of insulting. I like these boobs.”

“...that’s creepy.”

She smirked, and downed another shot. “Honestly, though, Deano, you just looked so mopey over here by yourself. Fucking lame. And besides, the sad puppy thing is more Sam’s shtick. It doesn’t suit you.”

He glared at her halfheartedly.

“Oooh, I hit a nerve,” she said.

“Fuck you,” he said, taking another shot himself.

“Sure, any time,” she said airily.

He decided not to respond to that. “Seriously. What the fuck happened to hating us?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Well, not much. I mean, kind of on principle, ‘cause you are what you are and I am what I am, but if I made war on everyone I fucking hated, I’d never have lasted this fucking long.” She shrugged. “Besides, I said I was done working with you. Never said anything about talking. Or drinking. So I’m gonna have a fucking drink with you. Because I feel like it.”

“...okay, then.” He didn’t put the knife away, though. He wasn’t an idiot.

And then they sat in silence again, and again he was the one to break it.

"So, whose side are you on?" he asked.

Meg arched an eyebrow and downed yet another shot of whiskey. She obviously didn’t need any sort of explanation what he meant. "What makes you think I'm pulling for anyone?"

"'Cause you're you," he said. "Rebel desperately seeking a cause." And, yeah, she hated Crowley with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, but she’d been flexible before. Maybe he was the lesser of two evils, next to Abaddon.

Or the greater. Because, y’know, fucking demons.

She rolled her eyes. "Cute," she said. "Real cute. But, nah. I mean, don't get me wrong, I want Crowley's intestines on a fucking stick, and I'll fucking _cheer_ when that bitch Abaddon finally takes the bastard down, but that doesn't mean I want her in charge, either.”

"Why not?" he asked. "No, seriously--the chaos she wants isn't your idea of paradise?"

Meg stared at him. "Wow. You still don't fucking get me at _all,_ do you."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious," she said. "Look, okay, you're right. Abaddon means a lot of fucking fun for the poor, repressed, demons fucking Crowley's got leashed. I know her type. I mean, I've been around the block a few times, and demons like her? _So_ much fun for a century or two."

Huh. "And then?"

She tossed back another drink, then turned the shot glass around in her hands, uncharacteristically thoughtful. "You know, Deano, it takes a lot to survive as long as I have. And the most important thing for survival is developing some fucking good instincts. Instincts like knowing when your superfun badass should take the reins, and when they need a leash. Abaddon needs a fucking leash."

"So, help me take her down," he said. "Her and Crowley both." Not that Meg was anywhere near his first choice for a partner, but everyone else was dead, currently hated him, or was busy helping people who needed it more. Or some combination of the three.

Dean just hated working alone.

But Meg threw back her head and laughed. "Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, you're _funny._ You're killin' me here, Deano."

He glared at her.

"Oh. Oh, you were actually _serious?_ " she said, pulling an exaggerated sad face. "Aw, poor widdle Dean is _lonely._ You're adorable sometimes, you know that?"

"Fuck you," he said.

"Like I said, sure, if that's how you wanna pass the time. Don't think I'm your type, though."

Once again, he refused to dignify that with a response.

"Look," she said, serious again. "I'm not interested in a fight with you--that tends to fuck over anyone stupid enough to try it. But I told you before, I'm done fighting _for_ you. All it ever got me was a fucking price on my head and over a year of torture. And you don't return the favor. Ever. I'm a big girl, Deano, and like I said, I've been around for a long time. I can sort of tell when I'm getting fucked over."

"Not like you haven't done worse to us," he pointed out.

"Sure," she said. "But I wasn't exactly claiming to be your ally back then. Shit or get off the pot, sweetheart. Either put our crap aside and treat me with some fucking respect, or stop asking me to take a fuckton of bullets for you."

Fuck. He could… _fuck._ He could actually see why she was pissed, when she laid it all out like that. She wasn't supposed to make _sense._ It wasn't fair. And she might be a heinous bitch who had killed their friends, but once she'd committed to helping them, she _had_ followed through. And they hadn't.

Well, Sam hadn't. Dean had been a little busy at the time.

Fuck. He didn't get to be mad at Sam right now. Not as deep in the doghouse as he was.

“You could have freaking said something, instead of being all ‘you don’t respect me, fuck you,’” he muttered.

“I sort of thought it went without fucking saying,” she said.

They sat in silence for another long moment, and then Dean changed the subject. "So, what _are_ you gonna do about them? Crowley and Abaddon."

She snorted, and obligingly followed his lead. "I'm gonna hang back and let the fuckers finish each other off."

"Smart," he admitted. "Good luck with that."

"Yeah," she said, then swallowed another mouthful. "Same to you."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"What?" she said. "Just 'cause I'm done fucking around with you doesn't mean I want _your_ intestines on a stick."

“Nice,” he said, dryly. “And then what? Once Crowley and Abaddon are gone, you take the crown? I gotta say, Meg, that’ll sort of fuck with this whole drinking buddies idea of yours.”

She actually took the question seriously. “Maybe. I mean, not like anyone else is gonna take over, or they would’ve fucking stomped Crowley years ago.”

“Yeah? Like who?” Couldn’t hurt to get a little more detail on high-tier demons who might come after him and--come after him someday. They always seemed to do that, sooner or later.

Maybe he should stop chasing Gadreel, chase Abaddon instead. Head her off at the pass. Bind and box her again, or something, at least. Before she got too close.

“Well, there’s Cain,” Meg said, ticking off on her fingers. “He could ice both of them, easy. But he’s off fucking sulking or whatever, and if I were you, I wouldn’t want him to come out of fucking retirement.”

“Seriously? _Cain?_ As in…”

“Yup,” she said. “The one and only. Kind of a self-important nihilistic fuckface if you ask me, but at least he kept the Knights in check before he wandered off.”

“...just how old _are_ you?” he asked.

“Let me put it this way,” she said. “I remember the fucking Flood.”

_Shit._ Dean ordered another shot. “So, Cain. Who else?”

She arched an eyebrow at him again. “Thinking about new Token Evil Teammates, to help you with Abaddon and fucking Crowley?”

“No.”

“Sure,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “Not much can kill Abaddon, and not much can get at Crowley, these days. Fucker. One of the Captains, maybe, but they don’t give a fuck about the rest of us.”

“The fuck’s a Captain?”

“Trust me, you’re happier not knowing,” she said. “Plus, there’s only two of ‘em left now. And Tesriel’s a fucking lazy coward. He spent the _entire_ fucking Apocalypse _stalling._ He’ll leave you alone unless you go after him. And if Anduriel gave a shit about you, he would’ve already made a move. Like, _years_ ago already made a move. And you probably would’ve never fucking seen it coming.”

Dean made a mental note of those names. If he ever got back to the bunker, he’d look them up. Maybe find some specific weaknesses there. Or maybe… “And they could kill Abaddon?” Meg’s idea of waiting for Abaddon and Crowley to finish each other off wasn’t a bad one--if the Captains, whatever they were, got in on the free-for-all, too...

“Maybe?” she said. “Don’t actually know. Far as I can remember, Knights and Captains never fucking fought each other. But if any demon alive--besides Cain--could do it, it’d be one of them. One of them could keep her fucking locked down, even if he couldn’t kill her, though, that’s for sure. And I’m pretty sure an Archangel could end a Knight, if you’re looking for other options, but when was the last time you fucking saw one of _them?_ ”

Great. So, Abaddon was still unkillable. That left binding her and leaving her to be someone else’s problem down the line. He fucking hated having to do that. But it was better than leaving her running free. He’d take the lesser of two evils here, if he saw her again.

“Right,” he said. “Seriously, though, what the fuck’s a Captain?” Because looking it up on his own was definitely a good idea, but it couldn’t hurt to get intel out of her, too. He would do his own research, whatever she told him, because he didn’t trust her. Respect her, sure, even if apparently he hadn’t fucking shown it well enough to keep her as an active ally, but trust? Not a chance.

“You really want to know?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

She sighed. “Fine. What the fuck ever. You know what happens when an angel falls, right? The traditional way, I mean,” she added. “Not whatever the fuck went on last summer.”

“They become human,” he said. “Old news.”

“Yeah. And, being human, eventually they die. And when they die…”

_...shit._ “They become _demons?_ ”

“Yeah. Fucking badass ones, too,” she said. “Harder to kill than basically anything except a Knight, and holy water doesn’t burn them.”

“Fuck,” he said. _Great. Just what the world fucking needs, another fucking group of demons on fucking steroids._ “How do I find them?” The sooner he found them--and figured out how to wipe the bastards out--the better.

At least it seemed more doable than tracking Gadreel now, and she’d said they were only _almost_ as hard to kill as a Knight.

“Like I said, Deano, you were probably fucking happier not knowing.” She stood up and stretched. “All right. I’ve already given you way too much fucking insight into demon politics for one night. And people are starting to stare at the tiny chick putting back a liquor store.”

“So you’re leaving.”

"I told you. Drinking and talking, maybe fucking, but a girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere,” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Listen, Meg--”

“Don't do anything too stupid, Deano, 'kay?" she interrupted, cutting off--well, he didn’t actually know what the fuck he was going to say, anyway, so it was probably a good thing. "World's a lot more fun with you and the moose around."

“Whatever,” he said.

She saluted him a little, then sauntered off out of the bar, walking in a perfectly straight line.

And, yeah, people were staring.

...and she’d fucking walked out without paying, leaving all the liquor she’d drunk on _his_ tab.

“Bitch,” he muttered, but--well, she’d needled him out of sulking, anyway. Given him something productive to focus on. It could have been worse. Besides, wasn’t that at least part of why he’d come in here in the first place?

True, there was still nothing on Gadreel, less than nothing on Abaddon, and what felt like a fuckton of research ahead of him--on the Captains, if nothing else--but he felt more like moving than he had in days.

He left cash on the bar--enough to cover everything, because it wasn’t the bartender’s fault Meg had stiffed him--then headed out to go...wherever the hell it was he ended up next.


	34. Part 4, Chapter 1: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

Naomi was waiting when Claire fell asleep.

"You know, I've almost started looking forward to this," she said. Naomi had been checking in almost every night since Nick had gotten out of the hospital--sometimes just to see that all was well, sometimes to talk about whatever was on Claire's mind, usually in some fantastical place built by clever dream-weaving.

"I'm flattered," Naomi said dryly. "Tell me, is it because you like what I show you, or because I keep the others away?"

"You say that like it can't be both," she said. Her dreams _had_ been a lot less stressful since she'd prayed for Naomi's help. Even between conversations. And, sure, Naomi obviously wanted something from her, but that didn't make the peace less welcome. And they _did_ visit fascinating places, all the time. "So, where are we tonight?" she asked.

"The Hanging Gardens of Babylon," she said.

" _Awesome!_ " Claire pulled ahead of Naomi a bit to explore.

Naomi's altered dreams were, or so the angel had explained, something more like projected or shared memories. Every place she took Claire was a place she had been herself, at least once, and was able to recall perfectly.

There was no other experience Claire knew that was quite like these dreams. Her favorites so far had been wading on a warm, sunny Tethys beach with pterodactyls flying overhead, and standing in the half-built temple on the Acropolis under a full moon--Claire had, when she was little, wanted to be an archeologist (after going through an impressively long dinosaur phase), and obviously Naomi hadn't had to work hard to figure that out. And, sure, it was only dreaming, not actual time-travel, and Naomi was _clearly_ softening her up for _something,_ but somehow, wandering through a lost Wonder of the World made that matter less.

Naomi let her explore carelessly for what felt like a full hour, in dream-time, occasionally interrupting to point out an interesting feature or share an anecdote, before gently corralling her. "Claire, can we talk for a moment?"

Well, it had to come eventually. And Naomi had actually been helpful and friendly, and had calmed her down, eventually keeping her from making a stupid, selfish decision that could have cost her her best friend.

And, when Claire had found out that Kevin had died, that that crush would be left as a "might have been" forever...

Naomi had been her friend. If nothing else, Claire at least owed her a fair hearing.

"Sure," she said. "What is it?"

"I've been working on reversing Metatron's spell," she said. "And I think I've got most of it figured out."

"So, you can all go fwooshing back to Heaven? Great!" She paused for a beat. "Sorry, that was rude."

Naomi smiled and shook her head. "I understand that many angels have given you very good reason not to trust any of us. And you're right--down here, en masse, with all of our petty feuds...it's bad for us and dangerous for humanity. And that's even before getting into the...adjustment issues many of us have had."

Claire nodded. Right, she sometimes forgot that Naomi was--or at least pretended to be--reasonable about this. She'd had an epiphany, or whatever. "Okay, good. But...I mean, why do you need my help?"

"It's not you directly that I need," the angel said, almost apologetically.

That was probably Very Not Good. "Oh?"

"I think Nick might be the key to the spell."

Claire's stomach dropped. Of all the things she'd expected from Naomi, _this_ was probably the worst it could have been. It was one thing for Meg to want Nick, and to use her to get to him--Nick wasn't _afraid_ of Meg, and, as genial and helpful as the demon had been, she was still _thoroughly_ demonic. She had never made her intentions anything but plain.

It was stupid. It was _totally_ stupid, because she knew what angels were. She _knew,_ better than most people, because she'd had one of the best of them--in a lot of ways--inside her freaking head and had _still_ gotten screwed.

But she was _hurt._ She'd trusted Naomi--the angel had somehow manipulated her into _trusting_ her--and she was...she felt betrayed.

She felt _betrayed,_ and she hated herself for feeling betrayed, for putting so much stock into those little tiny traces of faith in Heaven she still had, and in the angel's carefully constructed facade of concern for her and her uncle.

Obviously, it had all been a lie, just getting her into position to do whatever the hell the angel wanted her to do.

She folded her arms and glared at Naomi.

"I just want you to let him know," she said. "I'll give you all the information I have, so he can make an informed decision. I won't try to force him into anything."

_...dammit._ The angel was far too reasonable for anyone's good. "Is this going to hurt him?"

"Probably," Naomi said. "But I will do everything in my power to see to it he survives. I promise you that much, at least. I know how much he means to you."

That...that brought her up short. Maybe she'd been unfair to Naomi, at least a little bit. Because...because it almost sounded like...

The implication there was clear, though Claire wasn't entirely sure it was supposed to be. Naomi would have been trying this regardless of her connection with Claire, but since she favored her--maybe even _liked_ her--the angel would take pains to protect Nick.

So, yeah. It _was_ manipulative, but Naomi had never _actually_ pretended to be altruistic, had she? Back when they'd first met, that first dream with Bartholomew, she'd even flat-out _said_ she wasn't. She’d never lied, not once, not to Claire, except maybe by omission. The fact that Claire had taken everything at face value here was her own damn fault.

Great. Now Claire actually felt _guilty_ for feeling betrayed. Dammit.

"...what would he have to do?" she asked, unbending just a hair.

"Do? Very little, or at least there is very little he would need to do in any sort of active sense. But...well, there's a long metaphysical explanation for what I need from him, involving details about the mechanics of angelic possession and its effects on the human soul," Naomi answered. "The short version is this: in order to keep Nick alive during his possession, Lucifer made some...profound changes. The end result of those changes is that Nick's soul can serve as a bridge, or, put better, help define the boundary, between human and angel. Based on the requirements for the first spell, I think I'll need it for the reversal."

Claire stared at Naomi. "What?"

"From what I've been able to observe, Nick's soul is as close to angelic consciousness as such a thing can be."

"What...what does that _mean,_ for him?"

"In practical terms, very little," Naomi said. "He is still essentially an ordinary human--though one badly damaged, in ways we can't heal, from a long, incompatible possession. But there are things he can perceive that an ordinary human can't, as I'm sure you've noticed. And, of course, any spell requiring soul power that he tried to cast would be overpowered and likely backfire."

That explained about the possession scars he could see. She could barely even tell another ex-vessel when meeting their eyes, and the eyes were the windows to the soul, or whatever. Nick didn't need more than a glance to identify an ex- _host._

She took a deep breath. "So...so, what, you would pluck out his soul, cast your spell, and...then what? Would he get it back?"

"Returning it is something I still need to work out," Naomi admitted. "As for removing it...well, angels can't, not without killing the human. I'll need to convince an elder demon to do it for me. I have one in mind, but I'm still deciding how to persuade him." She wrinkled her nose faintly in distaste.

Great. Demons. _More_ horrible things involved in this. As if it wasn't horrible enough. Claire was swinging back towards feeling betrayed again.

Except...okay, Naomi was going to try this, no matter what Claire decided, and, for better or for worse, she was trying to do right by them and make it Nick's choice, make sure it was as minimally awful for him as possible. So Claire should probably try to do the same. Especially since Naomi didn't really _know_ Nick, and might accidentally make it worse for him.

And if a demon _had_ to be involved…

"What about Meg?" Claire asked. "She likes Nick, and he's not afraid of her."

"Meg?" Naomi considered. "She could do it, perhaps. She does have the power."

"And if the demon you're considering is Crowley--" which, hopefully, it wasn't, because fuck him, seriously, "--she might agree out of spite, and to get access to a potential favor to keep it from him. She _hates_ him."

"A useful angle to consider," Naomi acknowledged. "Thank you, Claire."

She didn't respond to that, and, yeah, it was rude, but she didn't really care at the moment. Naomi was putting her in a kind of awful position, all things considered. And...dammit, she was probably making it harder for Nick to do the sensible thing and refuse.

Swinging back to feeling betrayed again. Crap.

But...there was that niggling little point, that Naomi seemed to _like_ her, despite everything. Enough to try and do the right thing. And...yeah, Claire _did_ owe her for all the dream-shelter and advice and everything. And, if she _was_ going to bring this to Nick--which at this point, for a lot of reasons and only half of them had to do with Naomi, she didn't really think she could avoid--she needed all the information.

So she squashed down her betrayed feeling, took a breath, and moved on.

"So...if we do get Meg on board, and if you figure out a way to put his soul back after...you angels all go home, and Nick lives?" Claire asked.

"There is a risk that his body is too weak to survive without the spells Lucifer left," Naomi said. "And those spells are tied primarily to his soul. I'll minimize that risk as much as I can, but there's no guarantee."

For a long moment, Claire considered what Naomi was telling her. She didn't like it. The idea of Nick without his soul made her skin crawl, and the risk that she'd lose him forever...

But all the angels would go home. Vessels would be _safe_ again--as much as they ever could be, anyway.

And, bottom line, it came back to what Naomi had said at the start. She couldn't decide this for Nick, couldn't refuse on his behalf. Not without talking to him first. Not knowing how important their work was to him, however terrifying this task might be.

"Okay," she finally said, even if a little piece of herself hated doing it. "I'll talk to him."


	35. Part 4, Chapter 2: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

"I need a better baseline," Nick said quietly, without sitting up or opening his eyes.

Claire slumped a little. This had been his third attempt to find proof of what Naomi had told them--that she knew about, at least; for all she knew he'd tried digging before bringing her in--and she was pretty sure he wasn't sleeping at all, the way his nightmares had been spiking lately. At least he hadn't passed out this time, but he'd shut down and it had taken her almost an hour to talk him back, and he still couldn't handle her being within five feet of him. She'd been hoping, desperately, that he'd finally decided to say when, because she couldn't take watching this anymore.

"Maybe you should stop trying," she said.

"I can't."

"Nick..."

"I _can't,_ Claire," he said, finally opening his eyes and looking at her, then shivered and took a deep breath. "It's important."

"Yeah." She sighed. "But...how are you even going to _get_ a better baseline? Without digging deeper, which you can't do because every time you try, you shut down."

"I know that," he said.

"So, do you have an actual plan?" He might, for all she knew. He'd been researching memory repression, in between digging attempts and his regular line and ward research. But whatever it was was probably going to _suck,_ or he would have already tried it.

So she sort of hoped he _didn't_ have a plan--if he didn’t, at the very least, he'd have to spend a while longer researching and recovering.

"Sort of," he said.

"Sort of?"

He was silent for a long moment, twisting his fingers. "You're not going to like it."

"Nothing you say is going to make me like it."

"I know," he said. "But...this is probably a really stupid idea, but...I don't have any good ones left."

"What is it?"

He took a deep, shaky breath. "If I can't be my own baseline, then I...I h-have to..."

"What?" she asked, because he couldn't _possibly_ mean what she thought he was hinting at.

"I have to..." He trailed off again, then pushed forward. "I have to be...I have to find somewhere easier to...something that resonates with...with those parts of me."

Fuck. _Fuck._ He actually meant--he seriously thought it was a _good idea_ to--

" _No._ Absolutely not," she said. "Nick, you _can't._ As awful as your last few tries have been, with...if you go _there_ to try..." Not to mention the risk that Meg was right and Nick might be some sort of _key…_

"I know," he said. "Believe me, I _know._ " He shivered. "But I have to do this."

" _Why?_ "

He flinched a little. "If I could put it into words, I would. I just...I can't...I...I have to try _everything_ before I give up. No matter how stupid."

"Talk me through it," she said. "Please, just try."

It took him a minute to start. "I just...I...if Naomi is telling the truth, then I can't not do this--the, the spell, what she wants me to do. But...but how can I know it's the truth?"

"That doesn't mean you have to..." She trailed off. "I don't think she's lying. Don't you trust me?"

He looked away, twisting his fingers. "I do. Of course I do. But angels...even when they tell the truth, they're never honest about it. They just...whatever truth they tell is only the truth they need you to hear so you'll do whatever they're asking. And I can't...I trust you. I don't trust _her._ Not without proof."

She let that sit for a minute. As much as she hated to admit it, and as much as she was a little bit hurt he didn't trust her judgment, he had a point--Naomi was in no way trustworthy. Still, Claire couldn't exactly figure what the angel gained by lying about this. And Nick's plan to _verify_ was just...she had to talk him out of it. "And the things you...the scars you see on other souls? That's not enough proof?" she tried.

He shook his head. "No," he said softly.

“I mean, did you check if Sam sees them, or if it’s just you?” Because maybe it was just a possessed-by-Lucifer thing, not...not what Naomi called it. Or even just a possessed-by-an-Archangel thing, but since Sam was the only other living Archangel ex-vessel anyway, that distinction wasn’t super-important at the moment. Either way, if it wasn’t just Nick, maybe that would be enough to get him to stop doing this, and he just hadn’t thought of it yet.

“I don’t...I don’t know. I don’t think so, he’s never mentioned it...but I never asked. And even if he doesn’t, it's not...it's not enough to prove I'm as...w-warped as she said."

"Yeah, okay, fair enough,” she said, and while she was disappointed, she wasn’t all that surprised by his response. She did at least sort of understand why that might not be enough for Nick. Especially since his headspace got kind of weird whenever Sam came up. “But there _has_ to be a better way to do it! Nick..."

He took a deep breath and looked up at her again, calm and sad. "If you can come up with one, I'm all ears."

Another moment of silence, while she struggled to come up with another counter-argument, or a better plan, then she sighed, and said, "This is a _terrible_ idea."

"I know," he whispered. "I can...I can get holy oil, I can make sure it'll be safe."

"You could die. You know that, right? If you try this, you could _die._ "

Which...okay, yeah, that was _probably_ overdramatic, a little, but...but it had gotten so hard on him, digging, and he'd been really sick not all that long ago, and psychic pain or stress or whatever translated into physical stuff, right? And going _there,_ that close to...that close to the thing that had hurt him so badly, deliberately looking for something that, as he put it, _resonated_ with it...

Even leaving aside all the million and a half _other_ ways this was stupid, there was a real risk, a _serious_ risk, that he _could_ get badly hurt or die.

He twisted his fingers. "I should have died a long time ago, Claire."

She froze. She'd thought--Nick had never seemed suicidal, not since coming to live with them, not exactly, but...

"I'm not--Claire, please don't look at me like that." He shivered. "I'm...I've done a lot, the last few years, with you and your mom, and I wouldn't want to go back and not do those things and I want to keep doing them as long as I can, but I...my possession was supposed to be a one-way trip. I never should have survived Detroit. I'm on borrowed time, and I know it. If...if this goes bad, at least..."

She got that. Sort of. "I'm coming with you. To make sure it _doesn't._ "

"You can't be in the--in the chapel. You know that."

"I'll be as close as I can, then!"

He was quiet for a beat, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she said, then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She still didn’t like it, but she didn’t see much of a choice--she was left with either going along and keeping him as safe as possible or arguing and he’d probably do it anyway, without her help, and get himself killed. “How do we want to do this? I mean, should we...should we tell anyone else, besides Mom, just in case?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s...no, I don’t want to tell anyone. Please?”

“Okay,” she said again. “...you’re sure about this?”

“No,” he said. “But…”

“Yeah. I know.” She sighed. “I’ll talk to Mom.” _And maybe_ she’ll _come up with a way to talk you out of this._ Not that Claire thought it was likely. Not at this point.

“Thank you,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she said, and managed a smile. “Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

He nodded and closed his eyes again, and she slipped out to talk to Mom, and hope, against all odds, that this somehow didn’t turn into an unstoppable disaster.


	36. Part 4, Chapter 3: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

Nick dropped the match onto the oil, and the circle of holy fire spread around him with a grim finality. It wasn’t actually keeping him here--he _knew_ that, dammit--but it somehow felt more solid than the barricade he’d built against the door. The barricade him bound him more, but the fire…the fire meant he was committed. He couldn’t turn back now.

…well, okay, he _could,_ technically--all he’d have to do would be to step over the fire onto the other side, where he’d left the fire extinguisher. Because he wasn’t stupid enough to have it in the circle with him. True, it could be argued that this whole thing was incredibly, suicidally stupid anyway--Claire certainly had, several times, and she wasn't entirely wrong--but at least he wasn’t subverting his own precautions.

And now he was stalling.

“Okay,” he breathed, then reached for the empty space where his ring should’ve been for reassurance before sitting down with his back to the fire. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing as best he could.

There was a post on the forum with detailed instructions for anyone masochistic--or desperate--enough, on accessing repressed memories. He’d read it over maybe a dozen times since Claire had given him Naomi’s message, and by now he had it memorized. _Breathe in for nine counts, and then out for nine,_ it said. _Just count your breaths, and try to feel for the empty space where your mind and soul and body all meet. From there, you can access anything._

It wasn’t easy to focus, especially not here. There was a massive hole in the ceiling, and a few dozen pigeons had, for some unknown reason, decided to nest in the rafters. Despite the shivering hum of power in the air, which the stupid birds _had_ to have picked up. Right?

And they were calling to each other what felt like incessantly, and the contrast between the cool, damp twilight air swirling down through the ceiling and the heat from the fire at his back wasn’t helping. He had problems with temperature even at the best of times, and this…this was not the best of times.

“Focus,” he reminded himself, and tried to shut out the pigeons and the heat and the cold (if he didn’t sort of know the reason, he’d be even more distracted by wondering how the hell this place hadn’t been torn down in the past six and a half years).

And, at the same time, it was _easier_ here, despite all the distractions. That same hum of power, even as it made his hair stand on end and screamed 'danger' with every breath, felt _familiar;_ it wanted to draw him in, welcome him, wrap itself around him, welcome him home. There was a soft, cool, musical light throbbing at the very edges of his perceptions, pushing him towards that borderline, towards that space. Defining it, in his mind's eye.

Finally, after maybe five minutes--it was hard to tell exactly, but definitely faster than it had been before--something just sort of clicked in his head. That had happened the other times, too. Hopefully the resonances here would make it easier to find the right pathway without feeling like he was going to explode.

For a moment, he felt like he was floating in an aching void. And it _was_ sort of like the place he’d been dimly aware of during his possession; the fragile, fractured borderline between his soul and his body, the infinite and narrow place where the angel slid in and took over the connections.

Except it wasn’t a void, couldn't be called a void, not really; there were yawning caverns and winding trails and burning cold threads of memory, trying to suck him in. They were brighter here than they had been before, so at least part of this was working, and--

No, wait, this wasn’t supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to be--

Rather than the pain he’d braced himself for, rather than the drowning sensation of being overwhelmed by it, rather than the razor edges of the pathways Crowley had cut through the tangles so many months before, he found himself being pulled into one of the shining, deadly, spiraling tunnels, and he couldn’t resist it, he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t get away.

“Wake up,” he tried to tell himself, but there was no sound, no voice, not here in the not-void.

The silver-white threads ensnared him, and he would’ve screamed if he’d had a voice here; it was like lightning caressing his skin. No, not skin, this place wasn’t real, this place wasn’t _physical,_ but oh God it felt like it.

He was sucked and stretched and dragged and squeezed and finally _yanked_ out of the void, landing on a--

_Oh, God, no._

He was on a quiet, snowy street, facing a familiar blue house with a familiar wreath on the door and a familiar string of lights edging the roof. A Christmas carol drifted through the empty air-- _O, Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining_ \--and snow was melting on his hair, and his skin was whole again, and he _knew_ what was waiting for him on the other side of the door and he didn’t want to see it, he couldn’t face it, not again, not like this, he couldn’t…

_No, please, no, not this, anything but this,_ please.

Against his will, he started down the path, pushed through the gate, through the door; his body--or what passed for a body here--moving on instinct, or muscle memory, or _something;_ and he dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, and he went up the stairs, and--

_Please, no, please, please let me go, please let me shut my eyes, please don’t make me see…_

And it was quiet, so quiet, when he hit the landing, except for the carol-- _so led by light of a star sweetly gleaming_ \--and he pushed open the door on the left and--

_This isn’t real._ This isn’t real. _This is just a memory, I can move on, I can escape, please, please, let me escape it, please._

His eyes wouldn’t close, and he saw it all over again, all of the blood--there was so much blood, how could a six-month-old child hold so much blood--

_No. No, this isn’t real, this is_ my _memory, this is_ my _mind, I can control it, I can move, I can get out of here. I have to get out of here._

He could feel himself start to shake, feel the strain, the effort it cost him. He tasted blood and he wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but reminded himself, over and over again, that it wasn’t real, it couldn’t possibly be real.

Freezing, sharpened threads embraced him again and finally, _finally,_ the blue house, the bloody house, dissolved around him.

He would’ve sunk to his knees in relief if he could, but he’d landed back in the void.

This time, he tried to focus more on--not on that inescapable memory, but why he was actually _here._ He imagined taking a deep breath, and held the question firmly in his mind-- _what am I? How was I changed? Did Naomi tell Claire the truth?_

The cold lightning twined around him again and shoved him through a series of flashes, moments from the year he’d been possessed, flying by too fast to track, covered with a thin, oily, bloody film that made it even harder to make out any details.

He tried to track it anyway, tried to see the progression in his burns, in his soul, in the between-space void, but it spun by so fast, and he was getting so dizzy, and he tasted blood again, blood and ashes. His vision wobbled, and if he’d had any physical presence here he’d’ve said he was shaking.

And _then_ came the pain, needles of agony pressing on every inch of him and, no, he still couldn’t scream, and he tried to ignore it, desperately tried to ignore it, reminding himself over and over again that it wasn’t real, that he just had to tolerate it until he woke up, but the pictures were _melting_ now, melting into pools of acrid blood just waiting for him to drink it in and he tasted bile, bile and blood, and then he--

"Nick?"

He was back in the chapel again, except--no, not really. The pigeons were moving slow, too damn slow, and the air was a steady, even, unremarkable temperature, and everything--even the fire--had taken on an eerie, blue-grey tint.

Oh, and he was _looking at himself._

Except--no, not really. The other Nick was slightly blurred around the edges, and not quite solid, and something less definable was...well, different. Not just that the scars had melted away, but something...something about the way his face looked at rest, or maybe it was an inhuman glint in his eyes, and...

"Lucifer."

The other nodded, then frowned. "This is making you uncomfortable." His face rippled and Nick's stomach churned, watching his own face, with someone else's eyes, reshaping into--

Oh.

"Would this be easier for you?" Sarah's voice asked.

Nick shook his head and closed his eyes-- _fall on your knees, o, hear the angel voices_ \--waiting for the last echoes of the bloody house to fade away. "No. No, I-I think I liked surreal better."

"As you wish," Lucifer answered, with Nick's voice again.

Nick shivered. _What am I_ doing _here? This was a terrible idea, Claire was right, I need to get up, I need to cross the fire, I need to...I need to…_

But he couldn't bring himself to move.

"What are you doing here, Nick?"

He knew he shouldn't answer. He knew that letting the angel in again was--well, the first step towards letting him _in_ again.

"How...h-how real is this?" he asked instead, finally daring to open his eyes.

Lucifer shrugged and sat down on the floor across from Nick, cross-legged. "Real enough."

Nick swallowed. This didn't quite feel like the dream where they'd first met, not exactly, but...

_You're dreaming, Nick. But it doesn't mean it isn't real._

_Real enough._

"Are you...are you still...?"

He arched an eyebrow. "In the Cage?" He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Don't worry. You can't free me by accident."

"Okay. Okay." But...

_Real enough._

"Then...then how is this...how is this happening?"

Lucifer considered, tilting his head in an eerily familiar pose of concentration, and chose his words with obvious care. "There is a connection between us--between any angel and their vessel. And here you are, at the entrance of my Cage. I can reach out to you here."

"Oh." That made a disturbing amount of sense. Especially since that was sort of why Nick had come here in the first place.

"You still haven't answered my question," the angel reminded him gently. "What are you doing here?"

"Digging," he said, a little defeated. He was really starting to hurt--he wasn't sure if it was just leftover from the act of probing those memories itself, or if Lucifer's presence was making it worse. Or, he had to admit to himself, comparing how he felt now with how quickly his previous attempts had become overwhelming, and how bad things had gotten with Crowley...

He pushed that alarming thought aside for now. "I'm trying to remember something."

Lucifer blinked. "From our time together?"

He nodded.

"Why?" And, unlike Claire or Amelia, he sounded curious, rather than worried or scared or otherwise distressed. "That time was awful for you. You spent most of it screaming unless I remembered to distract you."

What little he remembered clearly had been like that, yeah. "A favor for a friend," he temporized, _not_ wanting to mention Claire anywhere near his angel.

"Hm," Lucifer said, but he didn't push. "All right. What is it that you're trying to remember?"

He blinked. "What?"

"What is it that you're trying to remember?" the angel repeated slowly.

"You're--are you offering to _help?_ "

"Yes."

" _Why?_ "

Lucifer looked offended. "Because I choose to do so. We have little time--this contact, limited though it is, is damaging you. I can minimize that somewhat, by giving you the information directly. You _are_ still my vessel, after all."

It would probably be a tad suicidal to press the point, and--well, if this _was_ real ( _Real enough_ ), and Lucifer wasn't lying about the relative security of the conversation (and he'd never lied before, at least not to Nick), this was his best chance at actually being _helpful._ Not just _useful_ (or used), but… _helpful._

_This is probably still a very bad idea._

"I...I wasn't expecting this," he said.

The angel smiled faintly. "Of course not. But you still came."

Nick nodded. "I was...It's not that I...I'm not trying to remember something specific, exactly. Just...I was trying to sort some things out."

"Oh?"

"And I thought if...if I managed to get somewhere that felt like..." He didn't want to say _like you,_ because there was no way of knowing exactly how the Archangel would react. So he shifted awkwardly and let it hang there.

Lucifer obviously figured it out anyway; he looked deeply amused. Which was maybe the best alternative, except that Lucifer, amused, could not mean anything good for _anyone_ else. "Well, we're both here now. You could ask."

Nick shivered and closed his eyes briefly. "I...was told...I w-was told that...that I'm not...that something...did you...what am I?"

He blinked. "You're you."

"No, I know that." _Most of the time, anyway._ "But...I mean..." He bit his lip. "Did you...change me?"

"Ah." The angel's eyes narrowed, and Nick shivered again, feeling strangely naked. "I...see. Well then."

"What did you do to me, Lucifer?"

"You kept trying to die." He shrugged. "It was very annoying."

He froze. "Wh-what? Why did… _what?_ "

"An angel needs a consenting soul in order to stay in a vessel," Lucifer explained. "There are certain natural safeguards that prevent the ordinary damage of time, and of course any wounds that don't kill the angel can't kill the vessel. But there are some things...our arrangement was not ideal. I was killing you faster than I could repair you, and the demon blood I harvested wasn't quite enough to make up the difference. If you died, I would have been forced out as well, so I had to either find a way to keep you alive or seek out another temporary vessel. And you were the best available as it was, so if I'd been forced to move..." He shrugged again. "So, I improvised."

Nick swallowed. "Improvised?"

"Yes." Lucifer tilted his head, studying him in that deeply unnerving, exposing way. "I must admit, it had far more of an effect than I intended. Probably because it lasted _far_ longer than it should have, and I had to keep inventing new workarounds as the old ones started failing."

"So...so am I...am I a...?"

"Demon?"

He nodded.

"Of course not. Your soul is still human. Mostly, anyway."

Right. He'd known that. Or he should have. He'd crossed enough salt lines over the years. There was no way he was a demon.

But he was _something,_ and that terrified him.

"So wh-what...what _am_ I, then?"

"Something new."

Nick could practically hear his heart skip several beats at that. "What does that _mean?_ " he asked, hoping he didn't sound as hysterical as he felt.

"It's all right," Lucifer said, holding out a soothing hand. "This isn't a bad thing. It means you're special."

That was _not_ helping.

He curled in on himself, shaking, and tried not to whimper out loud. He felt something wet trickling down his face, and tasted salt. Anywhere else, he would have thought it was sweat, but here, in Lucifer's presence, it couldn't be, not even from terror, so it could only be...

_Oh God._

He was bleeding. He was _bleeding,_ and his angel was there, smiling at him, and promising him--what, he didn't know, but all of his old wounds, all of his scars were reopening, and he wasn't even _human_ anymore, and he was _bleeding_ and--

Without warning, icy fingers rested on his forehead, dulling the terror to silence in an instant.

"Calm down," Lucifer said. "It's difficult to talk if you're panicking."

"S-sorry," Nick said, shivering.

"It's all right," the angel said, not ungently. "But I told you, this isn't a bad thing. You can be a bridge."

If Lucifer hadn't frozen him, Nick probably would have panicked again. Because, yes, that was more or less an oversimplification of what Naomi, through Claire, had told him--he was a weird sort of halfway point between human and angel, which meant his soul could bridge the gap Metatron had forced open and let the angels back into Heaven--but this was _Lucifer,_ and he could only mean...

_What the hell was I_ thinking? _This was a terrible idea I should never have come I should have listened to Claire why didn't I listen to Claire?_

"Not for me," Lucifer clarified, and he sounded amused again. Of course, he must have followed that. "At least, not today. You'll need some serious preparation and shielding before we can try that."

For a minute, Nick just stared at the angel, uncomprehending. If not for him, then who...?

Then it hit him.

"Adam?" he asked. "You want...you want to give me _Adam?_ " Could he even do that? How the hell would that--he would have to get _Michael_ to agree, wouldn't he?

"Yes."

" _Why?_ "

Lucifer looked mildly offended again. "Because I choose to."

There was a catch. There _had_ to be a catch.

"...and only Adam will come out."

"I told you," the angel said. "You can't free me by accident. And it's not feasible today. You'd be destroyed far too quickly."

Comforting thought. But at least that made the catch pretty damn clear.

On the other hand...on the other hand, everything he and Claire and Amelia had built, all the stories and the saves that gave his life...that made it possible to live with himself...

If he walked away from Adam, if he didn't save the one person who had the experience closest to his own, none of that would matter anymore.

With a much better reason--and, hopefully, less disastrous consequences--Nick once again threw caution and common sense to the winds and made his choice.

He took a deep breath. "What do I need to do?"

Lucifer smiled. "Brace yourself. This will be unpleasant."

With no further warning, he rested his hands on either side of Nick's head. And, once again, the Archangel showed his talent for understatement.

Waves of ice, so cold it burned, flowed down him, the pain taking his breath away.

And then came the _heat._

The last thing he thought he heard, before he mercifully lost consciousness, was Lucifer laughing and whispering in his ear.

"See you soon, Nick."

Then the darkness swallowed him whole.


	37. Part 4, Chapter 4: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

His chest hurt. That was the first thing he noticed; he hurt more than usual, and it was mostly centered on his chest.

He could still hear the holy fire crackling all around him, but at least the pigeons in the rafters were flying at normal speeds, and the light was warm and natural again--fire and golden sunlight-- _sunlight,_ this whole thing had taken at least twelve hours, what the hell--pouring down through the hole in the ceiling. Whatever had happened, however real it had or hadn’t been, it was over now.

And he wasn't alone.

He sat up, probably faster than he should, and his ribs screamed in protest.

There was a boy about Claire's age, crouched on the opposite edge of the ring of holy fire, still within the circle. He was watching Nick carefully, without actually looking directly at him--not an easy skill to master, Nick knew from experience.

And for him to be _here,_ watching...

_Jesus Christ, I think it actually worked._

"Adam?" he asked tentatively. Because he had no idea how he might...he had no idea what kind of answer he would get.

But he just...nodded. "Careful," he said, clear as day, and miraculously coherent. "You stopped breathing. CPR breaks ribs sometimes."

"Right. Okay." That explained the pain, at least. He rested a hand awkwardly on his side. "Uh. Thanks."

Adam nodded again, then glanced to his left. "Fire?"

"Holy fire," Nick explained. "It's safer that way. Angels can't cross it."

"...I don't like it," Adam said. "And Michael said you could only build a bridge for me. The Cage isn't...it wasn't made to hold humans."

Lucifer had said the same thing, or something similar, anyway. He’d left out the whole ‘not built for humans’ part. Of course, the implication there had been less that it was completely impossible for him to be a bridge for the Archangels, and more that he might not be strong enough, might not survive long enough to finish.

All he said aloud was, "That's what...that's what I heard, too." He shrugged one shoulder, hoping if he pretended to be less shaken than he was, he might actually believe it, and immediately regretted it. When he was still, at least, the pain from his ribs just sort of faded into the rest of the background noise after a moment. Any movement, though, apparently brought it right back.

"Careful," Adam said again.

"Y-yeah," he said, taking shallow, steady breaths and twisting his fingers and waiting for his vision to clear. He needed to keep talking, back about safer, more concrete, slightly less terrifying things, that would help. Or, it might, anyway; it did sometimes. "I set up the...the fire because I came here to...to try and remember something. I...I didn't know what would happen. I didn't want to risk..." He trailed off. He was pretty sure Adam wouldn't need any further clarification there.

Adam did nod, almost absently, then his eyes flickered over to the fire again. "I still don't like it."

"Sorry," Nick said.

He went quiet and still for a moment, then slowly stood up. "We should leave."

"Yeah," he said.

The kid hesitated another half second, then came over to help him up. His hands were icy.

Nick shivered a little, despite himself. "Sorry. Um. W-we'll...we should cross the fire. Just to be safe."

Adam paused, then took a breath and nodded. "Then hospital."

He froze for a second, remembering pain and sedation and wires going in and out and keeping him trapped and-- "No," he said, trying not to let his voice shake too badly. "No hospital."

"Your ribs are probably broken," Adam reminded him, still eerily calm. "Also, you stopped breathing."

"I'm breathing now," he said, maneuvering closer to the fire with Adam's support. "No hospital. Please."

He didn't press the point, just braced himself and helped Nick across the fire.

It wasn't pleasant--it _was_ fire, after all--but neither of them burned. Neither of them died.

They both relaxed on the other side, and Adam settled Nick against the wall before going to break down the barricade Nick had built against the chapel door before pouring the oil.

Claire, hovering outside, responded as soon as Adam started shifting things, pushing the door half-open before he had even half-finished unblocking it. "Nick! Are you--who are you?"

Nick couldn't see her, but even if he hadn't known her as well as he did, he probably would have guessed she was reaching for her taser.

"Adam," he answered, soft and calm.

" _Adam?_ " she repeated.

"Yes."

Nick dragged himself up along the wall and picked his way over to the door. Adam quietly stepped aside. "I'm okay, Claire," he said. "And we both crossed the fire. We're safe." True, he hadn't checked for demons yet, but there was a salt line on the door, of course. And demons weren't the real worry here.

"You're bleeding," she said.

He flinched. _Okay, so that part also happened._ Very carefully, he didn't look. "It got...hard. But, um, I got Adam out?"

She nodded. "I saw. Are we taking him home?"

"If he wants to come." He half-turned and stopped a second, surprised to find Adam was still close, hovering half a step behind him. "Do you?" he asked.

Adam blinked, then slowly nodded.

"Okay," Claire said.

"Okay," Nick echoed. "We'll...uh, how long has it been?"

She hesitated, then said, "It's like three hours since dawn, and you went in right before sunset. I'd have to check an actual clock. I don't have my watch and my phone's battery died and I didn't want to leave..."

Okay. Well. That could have been worse. At least it wasn't multiple days.

Of course, if it had been, Claire probably would have broken down the door herself and dragged him out of the circle. God alone knew what might have happened _then._

"Thanks," he said, quietly. "For, uh, for not...for letting me do this. And not interrupting."

"I was about to," she said. "Then I heard moving and talking and...I'm glad you're okay."

"His ribs broke," Adam said softly. "I think."

"...sit down, Nick," she said. "Adam and I can get the door open, then I'll tape you up, okay?"

He nodded, and did as she said, relieved that she hadn't brought up hospitals.

Adam watched him for a minute, as if making sure he made it okay, then resumed disassembling the barricade.

With Claire also working from the outside, they had it demolished and the door open in about ten minutes.

She pushed past Adam and went to kneel next to Nick and check his ribs. He hissed a little when she pressed, gently, and twisted his fingers again.

“Yeah, I think Adam’s right,” she said. “I’ll tape you up, and then we’ll call Mom and go home, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and closed his eyes, focusing on breathing and staying calm.

He felt Adam’s hand on his shoulder and--it was like something clicked into place, like a piece of him that had been off-balance for years suddenly found its center of gravity. And _that_ was going to be a fun thought to unpack and sort through later, but for now…

For now, he let out a breath, and waited for his aching ribs to fade into the background, and concentrated on all the ways last night had gone right. For now, that was enough.


	38. Part 4, Chapter 5: Amelia

 

**Amelia**

 

The boy curled his hands around his coffee mug. He looked...young. Much younger than Amelia had expected. Unlike Claire, she hadn't read the books--she hadn't even gone as far into them as Nick had, and just read her own story--but Claire had filled in the blanks. She knew exactly who this boy was. She knew he'd been about nineteen when...

He still looked it. Wherever he'd been, whatever kind of hell he'd lived through, it hadn't aged him. Not physically, at least.

"You seem..." she started, then stopped. She shouldn't make assumptions like that. Or at least she shouldn't _start_ with them. She might not take as active a role in the forum as Nick and Claire, but even she knew better. "Are you okay?" she asked instead.

He blinked and half looked up. He looked surprised, more than afraid. True, no two people wore fear the exact same way--but Amelia knew fear, and this boy's dominant emotion seemed to be just...surprise, that someone was talking to him at all.

Which could be...well, she didn’t know what it meant, and she wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad one. But given where he’d been...

"I think so," he said.

She nodded. "Good. That's good." Surprising, considering where Nick said he'd pulled him from, but...

No. No, she was _not_ going to overthink this and start jumping at shadows. The kid did seem okay--more stable than Nick, even--just...he was so _quiet._ She hadn't expected that.

"They ignored me, mostly," he added. "Especially after Sam left. I kinda...drifted, in and out. I think Michael...I think he made me sleep, most of the time."

"I'm...that's good," she said. "And surprising," she added, before she could stop herself. But it _was._ After all, the angels she'd met--and the ones she'd heard about on the forum, and from what little Nick had been willing to share--were unlikely to be kind, even to a bystander. Everything she'd learned indicated it was highly improbable.

He shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't break any rules. They're sorta big on the way things are supposed to be."

"I see," she said. "So...they actually let you stay clear?"

He nodded, then looked down into his coffee. "I wake up, sometimes, and see them going at it. But mostly I was out of it. It was harder when Sam was there. They let us talk, sometimes. Gives 'em more of him to take apart."

She winced a little. "That...that must have been awful."

He shrugged again. "Easier than he had it. All I had to do was watch."

She had no idea how to respond to that. Because agreeing would be--yes, he was probably right, but that didn't mean that what he'd gone through hadn't been awful, too. And she didn't want to diminish that.

So, she cleared her throat and shifted the subject. "You're welcome here, you know that, right?"

He nodded. "Claire said I was, yeah."

She smiled. "As long as you want to stay, you'll have a home here." Probably, Adam wasn't a target the way Nick was, and they'd been all right so far. Plus, the way Nick had half-killed himself trying to _rescue_ the boy...

Even if she was still unsure about taking in Claire's strays, she couldn't have refused this one.

"Thanks," he said. "I want to..." He hesitated. "I don't know what I want. But Nick's here, and you and Claire are nice, so I feel like I should stay."

"All right," she said. There was probably a hell of a lot to unpack in that--or at least the way he said it--but now was not the time. And she didn't know him well enough. "Do you...do you have any family? Other than Sam and Dean? We could try to get in touch with them for you."

He blinked. "I’m not sure. I don’t think so. But they'd probably know better. It was just me and my mom, 'til we got eaten by ghouls."

And, once again, Amelia was at a loss for words. "I'm...I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It didn't really hurt. They killed us first. Then the angels brought me back for Michael."

She nodded. “Still, it must have been awful.”

“Yeah,” he said, then fell silent again.

This time she let him, wishing there was something more she could do. Maybe, with time, like with Nick, a safe haven would be enough for him to at least stabilize a little, even if complete recovery was probably out of the question. Because even if Michael had treated Adam fairly--or as fairly as an angel knew how, anyway--even if he was only a witness for the worst of it, he had been damaged nonetheless. And no one deserved what he had lived through.

She would just have to hope their home was enough.


	39. Part 4, Chapter 6: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

Nick didn't bother looking up when someone knocked on his door; it could only be Claire or Amelia--or Adam now--and he trusted all three of them. Plus, he was in the middle of sketching out a tree, and looking up would mean losing his place. Especially with the constant, low-key dizziness he'd been fighting since...well, since. Between that and his ribs, moving was generally more trouble than it was worth right now.

"It's open," he said.

He did manage to mark his place and look up when the door opened, and--okay, it would be very nice if the room would stop spinning like that every time he moved. At least his ribs were staying quiet for the moment. But after a few seconds, he was able to focus enough to see who it was--Adam. Okay. The kid was carrying a backpack, hugging it close to his chest like it held something precious.

Still, even though he had no way of knowing what was in the bag or what Adam wanted, he relaxed a little, now that he knew who it was. It was still a little...weird, how _natural_ trusting Adam felt--even Claire had had to work at it for a while, but with Adam...

Another one of those uneasy things about his brain he tried to avoid thinking about, had avoided thinking about since he’d first noticed it, back in the chapel. He knew he probably wouldn't like the answer.

"Hey," he said, and set his tree aside.

"Hi," Adam said. "I talked to Amelia."

"Yeah?"

"I'm staying here."

He smiled a little. "Good. That's...that's great."

Adam nodded. "I want to show you something," he said.

Nick blinked. "Okay?"

The kid dug around in his bag and pulled out something long and thin, wrapped in what looked like a pillowcase.

It was...Nick could practically _hear_ it humming with power. It put him on edge right away, even before Adam had unwrapped it and, despite himself, he pressed himself back against the headboard. "What...what _is_ that?"

Adam removed the pillowcase, revealing an angel blade, sleek and unadorned and--

No. Not an angel blade. An _Archangel's_ blade.

Nick wasn't quite sure how he knew the difference, but he did. It was more than a little uncomfortable, and he could feel his heart pounding in his throat. "Where did you _get_ that?"

"It came up with me," he said. "I woke up in that convent with it up my sleeve. It's not Michael's." He turned the blade over and offered it to Nick, hilt first. "I think maybe it's for you."

He flinched, but, almost as if magnetically drawn, reached out and touched the hilt with his fingertips.

 

_The golden angel lies broken and smoking at his feet--_

 

He jerked back, shaking. He curled his hand close to his chest. It felt like it had been burned. "Gabriel," he said, blinking rapidly to clear the last of that image from his eyes, waiting for the room to restabilize around him. "It's...it's Gabriel's."

The memory had faded almost as quickly as it had come, triggered exclusively by contact with the blade, but he could still taste the blood and the acid grief of his angel, could still feel the blood on his hands.

Adam blinked. "You're sure?"

He nodded. "I...we never had...I think Lucifer's was gone."

"Yeah. It was. But you're sure it's Gabriel's?"

He nodded again. "We--he...we killed him with it. It...it's what I remember, because it was the only...I thought we left it there."

"I guess not," Adam said.

"Why did...why would he--would _they_ \--give it to you now?"

Adam shrugged. "I wish I knew. Do you want it?"

Nick shook his head emphatically. "No. You keep it."

He nodded and wrapped it up again. “Okay,” he said. “I just thought you should see it.”

“Yeah.” He shivered, despite himself. “Uh. Okay. I saw it now.”

Adam blinked. “What’s wrong?”

“Memories,” he said. “Just...memories.”

“Okay.” He slid the pillowcase back into his backpack.

Nick relaxed marginally, though he could still feel his heart pounding in his throat.

“I won’t show it to you again,” he said. “Unless I need to use it.”

“Thanks,” he said, hoping he wasn’t letting on exactly how relieved he was.

He nodded again and slipped out of the room.

Nick closed his eyes and leaned back again, taking as deep breaths as he could without hurting more and twisting at his fingers, and waited for the last of the adrenaline to die. Hopefully, when it did, he wouldn’t be too dizzy to work, because the last thing he needed right now was an empty mind with no distractions.

 

_The golden angel lies broken and smoking at his feet--_

 

He shivered and twisted his fingers hard, swallowing blood and panic and hoping against hope for calm.


	40. Part 4, Chapter 7: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

Research day. Again.

Not that Dean actually objected--it wasn't like it wasn't important--but practically every freaking day for the past two _weeks_ had been spent like this. No cases they could agree on, no actual _work,_ just piles and piles of freaking research. Sometimes going through Kevin's notes, sometimes researching ways to track Crowley or Gadreel down, sometimes ways to kill Knights of Hell, or Captains, or...anyway, it was all important, all good stuff to do, whatever. Dean was itching to do something _active,_ that was all.

Sam, at least, was in his element. It was good to see him--if not happy, at least sort of relaxed, for once.

Plus, frustrating as this whole thing had been, sitting in the library, digging through all the crap they had to dig through was at least a little bit less awkward than trying to negotiate their new--whatever the hell it was, because he fucking refused to call it a 'new normal'--out in the field. Here and there, it even almost felt like before everything went to crap.

It gave him hope for the future, at least. Things would be better soon. Inch by inch, things would get better, and they really would be back to normal again.

Even if he wanted to claw at the freaking walls in the meantime.

Dean was about to suggest taking a break and getting some lunch or something when Sam's phone rang.

Sam looked up, marked his place in his book, and checked it. He blinked and answered. "Nick? Are you okay?"

_...huh._ From the look on Sam's face, Dean guessed that Nick calling out of the blue like this was not something that happened often. _This can't be good._

"No, I can talk. What happened?" Sam listened for a few seconds, then frowned and said, "Wait, hold up. You're sure she said Naomi?"

_Naomi?_ She was dead, though, wasn't she? Or, at least, that's what that Reaper Maurice had told them ages ago.

"No, no, I believe you, just...we thought she was dead. Had it on pretty damn good authority, too. ...of course she faked her death--any idea why?"

Okay, so apparently, at least according to Nick, Naomi had freaking faked her death--which, given who and what she was, wasn't actually all that surprising. Dean made a mental note to tell Cas next time they talked.

"Right," Sam said. "Right, okay. So, what exactly...?" He listened for a moment, then went pale and very still. "Wait, _what?_ ...okay. Um. Hold on. Dean's right here, I'm putting you on speaker and you're gonna need to repeat that, okay?"

Dean blinked. "Sam, what--?"

Apparently, Nick agreed faster than he could get the question out; Sam cut him off with a brief headshake, then put the phone on the table between them and said, "Okay, Nick. Go."

On the other end of the line, Nick took a breath, then said, "I accidentally got Adam out of the Cage."

For a long moment, no one said anything.

_What the...how...but…_

"Accidentally?" Dean finally managed to ask. "How do you _accidentally_ raid the fucking _Cage?_ "

"It...I don't know exactly how it worked," Nick said. Which was a seriously fucking disturbingly vague answer. "And maybe 'accidentally' isn't the right word, I don't know. I didn’t...it’s not like I planned it, it just sort of...happened. But only Adam came out. I'm sure."

Yeah. Okay. That was a given. Nick wasn't stupid. But what if not _all_ of Adam had come out? What if Nick had brought him back _soulless,_ like Sam? It wasn't like he'd had any fucking control over it, from what he'd said.

"Is he...is he with you?" Sam asked. "Can we talk to him?"

"Better yet, where are you?" Dean said. "We want to see him."

Sam pulled a face. "Dean..."

Dean ignored him.

Nick was silent for a long moment, then finally said, "He says he's okay with that. We can meet you in Wichita in a couple hours."

"Okay," he said. "Call us again when you get close." Without waiting for Sam to add anything, he reached over and hung up on Nick.

Sam sank back into his chair, staring into thin air with a creepily blank expression.

_...shit._ "You okay, man?" Dean asked. "I can go to Wichita by myself, if you want."

He jumped, then shook his head. "No. I'm coming."

"Okay." He hesitated for a minute, then asked, "Do you want to--?"

"No," Sam said shortly.

"Okay." They sat there for a minute, staring at the phone, then Dean asked, "So, uh, did Nick give you anything else before you pulled me in?" The more intel they had on what they were about to walk into, the better.

"Not much," he said. "He told me he was trying to confirm something Naomi had told him, and he ended up with Adam."

"So, does that mean he was...?"

"I don't know, Dean," he said.

"Well, what was he trying to confirm?"

"I don't _know,_ " Sam said. "He sort of skipped that part, telling me what actually happened."

"Right, sorry," Dean said.

A tense silence stretched between them for a couple minutes, then Sam let out an almost explosive sigh and got up. “I’m gonna go for a run. I’ll let you know when I hear from Nick.”

He was out of the room before Dean could respond. “Okay,” he called after him anyway, then slowly got up and wandered into the kitchen to get himself another beer.

_Adam._

Of all the things he could’ve expected--he’d given up on expecting this one. Adam, out of the Cage, and no one had had to sell a soul or bargain with a Horseman or complete a freaking Trial to do it...

He just wished he could tell whether it was actual experience or just plain paranoia telling him that something about this meant bad freaking news.


	41. Part 4, Chapter 8: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

The address Nick had texted Sam turned out to be a near-deserted motel just outside Wichita.

"Room number?" Dean asked.

"215," Sam replied, after a brief glance at his phone.

"Got it."

The room was at the far end of the building, easily identifiable by the blue-haired girl sitting outside.

"Hey," Claire said, standing up and tapping lightly on the door, three times.

"Hey," Dean replied. "He's in there?"

She nodded. "Before we go in, though, you should know--he wants us in there with him, at least for this first meeting, okay?"

_Not really._ Dean sure as hell didn't want an audience for reuniting with his freaking half-brother. Especially since they hadn't exactly parted...it had been messy.

But Sam beat him to answering. "Of course. Whatever makes him more comfortable."

Okay, fine. They could cave on that. "How is he?" Dean asked instead. Better to know what they were walking into.

Claire considered for a minute. "It's...hard to say. He's not jumpy, like Nick is. He's really...quiet, though. It might be...it probably won't be easy to talk to him."

"Yeah, okay." That didn't really tell them much at all. Definitely nothing they couldn't've guessed on their own. But it wasn't like Claire knew how to answer Dean's real question, especially since he couldn't bring himself--or even figure out how--to ask it directly. He'd have to rely on instinct once she let them in, and hope that--well, he barely knew Adam. They'd only talked like once, and that had been...it had been a bad day. For both of them.

She tapped on the door again--four knocks this time--then pushed it open.

The door, windows, and even the air vent were all neatly salted, and the walls were papered with taped-up angel wards that were extensive enough that even _he_ thought it was a little paranoid.

Adam was sitting cross-legged on the bed farthest from the door. He looked--God, he was still just a _kid._ He looked the same as he had the last time they'd seen him. He blinked once, but otherwise didn't really react to them coming in.

Not a good sign.

Nick was in a chair right by the door, eyes closed. He looked hollow and exhausted, almost strung-out. His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets, and he was pale to the point of looking almost waxy, his scars standing out in sharp relief.

Also not really encouraging.

Nick opened his eyes and straightened a little. "We can do tests if you don't trust the wards."

Dean shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt." The wards definitely looked solid, but you could never be too careful.

"I can do a banishing, if one of you has holy water," Claire said from behind them, pulling out a pocket knife.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah. _If._ "

She stuck her tongue out at him and slashed her palm, proceeding to draw one of the fastest and neatest banishing sigils he'd ever seen.

Once she finished, they passed the holy water flask around. "Everyone satisfied?" he asked.

No one objected.

"Okay, good."

Claire wrapped her hand and settled on the floor next to Nick. For a long moment, no one said anything.

Sam finally broke the silence. "So, uh, Adam, you're...uh, you're really back. You got out."

Adam blinked slowly again. "Nick got me out," he corrected softly.

"Yeah, he mentioned," Sam said, glancing over at him.

"When did this happen?" Dean asked.

"Four days ago?" Adam said, glancing over at Claire for confirmation.

She shook her head. "Six."

"Right. Sorry, time gets fuzzy."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Dean said. Time had been a little weird for him when he'd come back from Hell, too, probably because it ran so much faster there, even if it didn't feel like it in the moment. He'd adjusted pretty quick--definitely by the time he’d found Bobby and Sam again--but he'd only been downstairs for a fraction of the time Adam had. Sam hadn't seemed to have that issue, but he'd come back in pieces and Dean hadn't been there for the first and then there had been the wall...

Anyway, that probably explained Adam's delay in making contact, too.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick quietly get up and slip outside, trailing one hand along the wall for balance. Neither Adam--though his eyes tracked Nick's progress briefly--nor Claire seemed to have a problem with that, so apparently one chaperone was enough for this.

Well, they could get Nick's side of things later. And Claire probably wouldn't have let him run off if she thought he'd get in trouble.

"So, uh," he asked, "how are you feeling?"

Jesus _fuck,_ this was awkward. But they needed those answers.

Adam blinked, and for an instant looked almost confused before blanking again. "I don't know what you mean."

Sam gave Dean a quick hand signal--he was going after Nick. Good, they'd get answers faster that way. And at least Sam didn't look too freaked by the situation. Not anymore, anyway.

That still left Dean with Adam, who was fucking impossible to read, and Claire hovering silently in the background. And Dean wasn't sure he knew the kid well enough to tell if he was just messed up or if he was soulless.

Not yet, anyway. He needed to keep digging.

"I mean, uh...are you sleeping okay?" Sam hadn't at all, while he was soulless. Nice, clear, easy way to check. Simple question. Simple was good.

"I don't scream like Nick does," Adam said, then glanced at Claire. "Do I?"

She shook her head. "Not that I've heard."

Adam nodded, and looked back at Dean. "So I guess I'm okay there."

"But you do sleep, right?"

Another brief flash of confusion, before reverting back to that unsettling blankness. "Yes?"

Dean relaxed. "Good. That's good. Sleep is good."

Adam blinked and looked at Claire again. "I'm confused."

"So am I," she said. "We already checked, Dean, he's not possessed. And we checked _again,_ right in front of you."

He shook his head. "Not what I was looking for."

"Then what?"

Well, now that he knew for sure it wasn't going on and wouldn't set Adam off, no harm in explaining. "When Sam got back from the Pit...he didn't have his soul. He was kind of...kind of psycho for a while, and it...well, he didn't sleep. We were afraid..." He shook his head. "Anyway, you sleep, so." How the hell Nick had managed to do what Cas, at his peak, couldn't--what Dean had had to bargain with freaking _Death_ to do--was beyond him. Maybe Sam could figure it out.

The point was, Adam wasn't soulless, just a little bit fucked up. They could deal with that. Dean was gonna go ahead and call this a solid win, the first in basically forever.

The kid was nodding. "Okay. I do sleep."

"Yeah," he said. "So...what are you gonna do now? I mean, now that you're back." He and Sam had sort of given up on the kid. They’d had no way to get him back, anyway, since Death had set his limits, and the longer it went on....Besides, at least for Dean, not thinking about Adam had been a hell of a lot easier than the guilt.

"Do?"

Holy _crap,_ that came out forced and awkward. "Sorry. Uh. This is kind of...we didn't really know each other, before. I'm not really...yeah."

"Not your fault," he said, and shrugged one shoulder. "You didn't even know I existed 'til I got eaten."

Jesus _fuck,_ he sounded like he was just talking about the freaking weather or something, not his own murder.

"Yeah," he said. "So, uh...do you want to talk about it? How much...how much do you remember?"

Adam tilted his head. "I remember you came back for me. I heard you trying to get in. Then Michael came."

Some of Dean's optimism slipped at that. "Yeah. I'm sorry, kid. I tried. I really tried."

“I know you did.” He shrugged. "You came back for me. And stabbed Zachariah. I'm not mad."

Yeah, that had been pretty damn sweet. Zachariah had been a dick even by angel standards. "You should come home with me and Sam. We have this kickass bunker, our grandfather--yours, too--gave us the key. So we're all legacies."

Adam shook his head. "I'm staying with Nick."

"He can come, too," Dean said. Hell, maybe locking Nick down wasn't a bad idea. At least it might keep him from doing something else as stupid as raiding the fucking Cage. _Accidentally._

Though, to be fair, he couldn't really argue with the results.

But, "I don't think Amelia would like that," he said.

"Crap," Claire said. "That reminds me, I need to check in. Adam, do you...?"

He considered for a moment, then shook his head. "It's okay."

"All right," she said. "I'll be back in a couple minutes."

Claire slipped out the door, shutting it behind her, and leaving them alone.

So, apparently, now he _was_ trusted to be alone with the kid. Good. Of course, he had no freaking clue what to say next, but...

Adam broke the silence before he had to figure it out, anyway.

“Is Sam mad at you?” he asked.

Great. _Exactly_ the kind of thing Dean wanted to get into with the kid. Besides, Sam wasn’t the only one who was mad, and maybe not even the one who had the most cause at this point. As epically as the Gadreel situation had blown up in their faces, at least Dean had been _trying_ to do the right thing. And Sam had flat-out said he wouldn’t.

Still, not something to discuss with Adam, not right now, at least. Not until the kid's head was on a little straighter. So, Dean tried to brush him off. “Nah, don’t worry about it.”

Something almost like a frown flickered very briefly on his face. “Because Claire thinks he is, and Nick won’t talk about it so I think he knows something.”

Okay, so, apparently it was obvious. Or maybe Sam had actually talked to Nick about the whole mess, and then that whole Cone of Silence thing he’d mentioned about vessel stuff would’ve come into play. That part made sense, ish, even if he sure as hell didn’t like it.

But there was something…something he couldn’t quite figure out, something just slightly _off_ about the way Adam was asking about it. “We’ll work it out,” he finally said, hoping the kid would take the hint and drop the subject.

No such luck. “What’s he mad about?” he pressed.

“It’s not your problem.”

“I’m just trying to understand,” Adam said, without a flicker of an expression. “Because I don’t. Human emotions are weird. I mean, I get angels. I don't get humans. Not anymore.”

…so, maybe Dean had mildly underestimated how fucked up Adam was now. “...what do you mean?”

Adam blinked. “I get angels. I don’t get humans.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They weren’t all that interested in me, ‘cause I didn’t break any rules. But it helped, figuring out how to tell when their mood changed. Knowing when it’s safe to look. Especially since there isn’t really anything I could do except watch, when I’m awake. Plus, there’s always the chance they might get bored with each other and turn on me, so I figured out how to stop feeling things so they won’t notice me. Michael did, sometimes, but all he ever does is make me sleep anyway so that didn’t really matter. But then I got out, and I don’t get people anymore. Guess I forgot, figuring out all the other stuff.”

That...that did not sound good at all. But it sort of made sense--and, given how _Sam_ had come out of the Cage, body and soul...it could have been worse. It could have been a _hell_ of a lot worse. “Right,” he said. “Uh. Well, I can help--or try, anyway--with figuring out how to read people again.” It would probably be easier than playing Sam’s freaking conscience back when he was soulless was, at least.

“Okay,” Adam said. “What’s Sam mad about?”

...right. Learning how to emote like an angel probably meant one hell of a one-track mind. Especially given his freaking templates.

Although…well, actually, if he _was_ as detached as he seemed, maybe he _could_ help. Outside perspective who wouldn’t have much of an emotional reason--maybe not even an instinctive one anymore--to side with either him or Sam. Close enough to get it, distant enough to be unbiased. And apparently Adam knew angels better than pretty much anyone, which couldn’t hurt. What the hell.

“I made a choice,” he said, deciding to just give the bare bones of the situation. “And all my options were crap options, so I picked the one where Sam lived. Ended up killing another friend of ours in the long run. He’s pissed about the choice I made. Doesn’t think it was the right one. Even said he wouldn’t choose to save me, if it came down to it.”

“Oh.” He sat there for a minute, face blank again, before asking, “What was the choice?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m trying to understand.”

Right. He had to teach the kid how to think like a person again, not an angel. Bare bones wouldn’t cut it. Damn it. He sighed. “I let an angel heal him. Only way for him to do it was to possess him. Angel turned out to be a psycho.”

“Oh.” Another moment of blank, eerie silence. “I think I can guess why Sam wouldn’t choose that for you.”

“So, you’re on his side?”

Adam blinked. “No? I don’t know. I’m not on…I don’t want to take sides, because I don’t really understand. But we were both mad when they were keeping us from Michael, weren’t we? I remember that. How is making Sam say yes any better than keeping me--or you--from saying it?”

“Because my choice _saved_ him.” Okay, what the hell. Adam really _had_ forgotten how to be a human being. Fuck. “And, yeah, it got Kevin killed, but the thing with Michael…it was _different,_ Adam.” And even if it wasn’t, Sam and Bobby were right then, just like he had been with Gadreel. Sort of. Mostly. Because Meg _had_ been right about one thing--he should’ve vetted the angel a little more carefully before signing Sam over to him. But _still._

“Maybe. I guess you’d know better than me,” he said. “…you kind of sound like him, you know.”

Dean stopped. “Who?”

“Michael,” he said softly. “He always did right by me, but he is always right. He always knows what’s best. And no one else’s feelings matter.”

“That’s not what I…” He trailed off. Okay, fine. Adam sort of had a point there. Which he wasn’t at all sure he liked. Michael may have been slightly less of a douche than the other wingnuts, but he’d _still_ planned on a planet-wide barbeque because of his private drama with his brother. And the situation _was_ different--because Michael planned on killing Lucifer, not saving him--but it was still…

Fuck.

“We’re supposed to be better than them,” Adam said, without looking at him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“I’m trying, but I don’t think I know how anymore.”

His voice was still that quiet, creepy monotone, but he was…Dean guessed that he was actually _scared._ Shit. “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “I’ll help. I promise.”

“You have to fix things with Sam,” was all he said, finally looking up. “Because we’re supposed to be better.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he promised. “And we’ll…we’ll see how it goes.”

Adam stared at him for a moment, something faint and not quite readable flickering through his eyes, then slowly nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

There didn’t seem to be much else to say at that point, so for a long couple of minutes, the two of them just sort of sat there.

“Is there something I should be doing?” Adam asked.

Dean jumped a little--he hadn’t expected the kid to start talking again that abruptly. “Uh,” he said, while his brain wheeled back to the earlier topic. “I don’t know. I mean...you’ve got options, now that you’re back.”

“Oh,” Adam said. “I guess I should think about that.”

“Probably,” Dean agreed.

Someone knocked on the door again, four taps, and then Claire came back in. “Hey. Everything okay here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, then stood up and stretched. “Look, why don’t I--why don’t I go find Nick and Sam, and then get some food or something? We can all have dinner together.” Small talk was always easier when there was food. And beer. He made a mental note to get a lot of beer.

“Sure,” Claire said. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Great. I’ll be back.” He slipped out of the room and let out a long, slow breath.

Okay. So, overall--a hell of a lot better than it could have been. Just awkward. He could handle awkward. Everyone was alive, everyone had their soul, everyone who belonged in the Cage was still stuck there...Adam had even given him a different way to approach the whole Gadreel mess, try again to fix what he’d broken.

Not a bad day, all added up like that. Just a hell of a lot of awkward.

He just hoped that this wasn’t one of those calm-before-the-shitstorm days, and it wasn’t all downhill from here.


	42. Part 4, Chapter 9: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

Seeing Adam again had been strange, more than anything else. In some ways, it was harder than he'd expected, even, but the really weird thing was it...mostly wasn't. Maybe that tied back to whatever the hell it was Cas had done to fix him. He _remembered_ everything, still, but it didn't...it didn't hurt, like he'd expected it to. Like maybe it should have. It was almost like he remembered a movie he'd seen, rather than his own damn experiences, except he was still the freaking lead actor.

All of that made it, if nothing else, a really fucking _disorienting_ experience. Probably, just like talking with Nick, it would get easier with time and repetition, but for now...

He shook his head briefly to clear it. He needed to get out of the room for a minute, he realized.

That was about when he noticed that Nick had left, too. Claire didn't seem upset, which meant that she, at least, thought he'd slipped off somewhere safe, but Sam knew Nick didn't like being alone, and he looked like he would keel over in a freaking stiff breeze. And he needed a break himself anyway.

He gave Dean a brief, covert hand signal to let him know he was sneaking off, then slipped out the door to find him.

Nick hadn't gone far, and, by the looks of things, he wasn't even really trying to hide. Not from Sam and the others, at least. He was sitting on a bench at the edge of the motel parking lot, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed.

"Hey," he said.

Nick waved a little without looking up.

"Can I join you?"

"Sure." Nick slid over a little, making room.

They just sat there for a minute, watching the clouds move across the sky. Sam tried to find the right moment, the right words, to break the silence, but Nick beat him to it.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly, still without looking at him, though he did make an effort to sit up straight.

Sam thought about it for a minute before answering. "I...don't know. More okay than I thought I'd be, but..."

He nodded.

"I mean, I'm not going to snap and start shooting at nothing again," he said. "And I don't think I'm going to fog over at the edges until I hit a dog, either. So...that's okay, I guess."

"Did you..." Nick hesitated. "When you were having...when you were seeing things, did you ever...did you ever see him? Or Michael?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Never. So...that probably helps."

He nodded again. "Do you want to talk about it?"

It was his turn to hesitate. For kind of obvious reasons, he didn’t talk about this part of things with Nick very much. But he was offering, and he knew Adam, and if anyone besides Adam would get it... "I...the worst parts...the worst parts were when he...when _they_ mixed in good things. And Adam...Adam was part of it. Not...I mean, I don't think he realized he was? At least not at first. But...they would let him talk to me, sometimes. He was an island, in all of it, and, for a minute...it would hurt less. And then they'd start again, and it would be...it would be so, _so_ much worse."

"I can...I can only imagine," Nick said quietly, twisting his fingers. "He says...he told Amelia they left him alone, once you were gone."

Some part of Sam unknotted, a part he hadn't even realized was afraid. "Oh, thank God."

Nick smiled faintly, and leaned back again, watching the sky.

"What about you?" Sam asked. There was more he needed to work through himself. He knew that damn well. But...he knew he hadn't left Adam to take his place, at least, and he had a foundation to build on. Talking more about that part wasn't...it wasn't what he needed. Not right in that moment, anyway. Not about this part. Not with Nick. But he _did_ need to know where Nick stood before he could move on.

Nick shrugged, then hissed faintly, resting a hand on his side.

"Nick?"

"Sorry," he said. "Broken ribs, we think. I forgot."

"You _forgot?_ "

He flushed faintly. "Claire taped them up for me. It kind of fades into the background after a while, unless I move too much."

_Your ten must be astronomical._

Sam resolutely pushed that memory aside. "Did that happen pulling him out?"

Nick shook his head. "Uh, not exactly. Adam said I stopped breathing for a minute. Apparently, CPR can break ribs."

He stared at him for a long moment. "Nick, what the hell happened? What did you do?"

He looked away, twisting his fingers again. "I don't...you'll be angry. With me. I don’t want..."

"I won't," he said. "Or...I'll try not to be anyway. And I'll hear you out all the way before I say anything, I promise. I just...how did you do it? What were you even _doing_ there?"

For a long time, Nick didn't answer. Sam was half afraid he'd checked out again and was about to try and bring him back somehow, when he finally said, "Naomi...Naomi told Claire that...that my possession changed me. More than usual. I wanted...I _needed_ to know more, and I couldn't...even using the paths Crowley cut for me, I couldn't remember. It was too...I kept passing out when I tried digging deep enough. So I wanted...I thought that if I...I went somewhere that would..."

"Feel like him?" Sam guessed, after Nick spent a few seconds visibly hunting for the right words.

He nodded. "I...I talked to him."

He jerked, his heart leaping into his throat.

"It wasn't...it was safe," he went on, still not looking up at Sam. "We just...we just talked. It was like a...like a dream. And he said...he said I couldn't free him by accident. And I don't think he was lying. He never has before. Not to me."

"Okay." Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "What did...was Naomi right?"

He took a deep breath to brace himself, then flinched and rested a hand on his side before nodding. "He said I was something new. That I could...I could be a bridge."

"And that's how you got Adam out?"

"Yeah." Nick twisted his fingers, hard. "...he wants me to come back."

"Of course he does."

"He said that...with the right preparation and shielding, I could be a bridge for him, too."

Yeah. Not surprising at all. "You're not going to do it, though, right?"

"Of course not," Nick said. "I'm not stupid. Anymore. I just..." He did his finger-twisting thing again. "He gave me Adam. He always...he's never lied to me, Sam. Not once. And I just lied to him, and I..." He trailed off. "I feel guilty."

"I get that," Sam said quietly. "I mean it, I do. But...you know what he's doing, right?"

He shrugged, then winced again.

"It's an old sales trick. Making you feel like you owe him, so you buy what he's selling."

"Yeah. I know. It's stupid."

"I'm not saying that. I get it. I do. Just...you don't owe him anything. If anything, he still owes you. Especially if all this crap about...about what Naomi said is true."

Nick shook his head.

Sam sighed, and stopped pushing the point. "Look, just...if you start feeling guilty enough that you're scared you might change your mind, please call me. I don't care what time it is, or what I'm doing--as long as I'm not actively dying, a-and physically incapable of picking up the phone, I'll take the call. I'll talk you down. I promise."

Nick nodded, and stared down at his hands. "I...uh. I might...there's...there's a good chance I'll have to...I'll have to take you up on that."

_Oh, shit._ "Yeah?"

"I don't...I don't _want_ to, I just..." He shivered. "I don't think I could walk away from him again. I'm not even sure I could've done it this time if I hadn't blacked out. I can't...it's not that I _want_ to, I just...I can't...I don't think I'll be able to say no to him again."

And whose fault was _that_ again?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I...I’m sorry that you have to deal with all of this. If I hadn’t--”

"Stop," Nick interrupted quietly. "Just...just stop. Please."

Sam blinked. "Look, Nick, I just--"

"I know what you're trying to say," he said, shaking a little and looking anywhere but at Sam. "A-and I appreciate it, but I need you to _stop,_ because I'm hearing something different, and it's not your fault--"

"It's not yours, either," Sam insisted.

"That wasn't what I--" Nick sighed. "Forget it. But it kind of is, though. And I need you to let me accept that."

No. No, that was bullshit. What happened to Nick was in no way his own fault. "Nick--" Sam started, but Nick just cut him off again.

"He didn't lie to me, Sam," he said. "I told you. He _never_ lied to me. I knew what I was agreeing to, as much as any vessel does. Maybe more, because he even told me it was going to hurt. I made a _choice._ "

Okay, that wasn't--well, Sam couldn't say it was a surprise, exactly, since Lucifer made a point of being truthful, but...for some reason, he had always figured Nick had been deceived somehow. And he knew he shouldn't--it was against the rules for a reason--but he had to know. "Why did you...?"

Nick shivered and twisted his fingers. "He promised me justice."

Sam opened his mouth to press for details, but thought better of it. He'd already pushed Nick farther than he should. Instead, he said, "If I hadn't let him out in the first place, you wouldn't have been in that position at all. There wouldn't have been a choice to make."

For a long moment, they were both quiet, before Nick asked, "Do you know what I see, when I look in the mirror?"

He blinked. "What does that have to do with--"

"On a good day," Nick went on, staring up at the sky, "on a good day, I see this...this empty shell, all that he left behind. And on a _bad_ day..." He trailed off, then took a deep, shaky breath. "My point is, it's...it's _hard_ for me to remember that I'm...that I'm more than that, that I'm a _person_ \--my _own_ person. And part of being a person is making choices--bad ones, too. So when you tell me that you're sorry, and that it's not my fault...I get what you mean. I do. And I know that...I know that you’re not wrong, or not totally wrong, anyway. But...but a part of me--a big part--hears that my choices don't...that my choices are less important than yours. That I'm less of a person than you are. And I _can't_...I need to not hear that. Especially from you."

Sam had never considered that possibility. And it still didn't make much sense to him, but if he'd really been making things that much harder for Nick, however unintentionally... "I'm sorry," he said again, after a moment. "For...for saying things wrong."

Nick nodded. "Thanks. And--I’m not trying to say that…I don’t want you to...look, I cope pretty well, these days, so you don't have to...I've worked out some things that help, and I try not to look in the mirror. I manage, most days. And I have more good days than bad. I just...I need to own my choices, Sam. I _need_ my guilt, especially since..." He trailed off for a few seconds, clearly struggling with how to word it, then shook his head. "I feel like I have a decent handle on how much guilt is really mine, and how much is his, and how much is...well, I'll just say that if there _was_ a human I blamed for what happened to me, it wouldn't be you."

_That_ caught Sam's attention. Nick had said Lucifer had offered him justice. Maybe that meant...

Nick clearly caught the train of thought. "Don't," he said, quietly. "Please, don't."

"Nick--"

"There's things I don't..." He looked up at the sky again and blinked a couple times. "There's things I don't talk about. With anyone. I'm sure you have some, too. That's one of them."

Yeah. He did. "Okay."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sam said. "Look, I didn't mean to--"

"I know you didn't," he interrupted. "I just..." He trailed off, took a breath, then shifted the subject back a few paces. "All I meant is...I feel like my guilt is the one normal feeling I have, you know?"

It took him a minute to wheel his own brain back to that topic. "I guess?"

"Everything else is...it's either too much, or it's all wrapped up in...the only thing I never picked up from...from him was guilt. Regret, once, and grief--actually a lot. But never guilt. And I keep getting traces of...I told you, I remember how he f-felt about things? Half the time, I don’t...I mean, sometimes it’s obvious, where it...but sometimes it’s not. So...so my guilt is...it's the one thing that's still...it's the one thing that's still _mine,_ for sure. Does that make any sense?"

He thought about it for a minute, then nodded. "I get that."

"Sorry," Nick said again, then cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. "I don't...I don't talk about that part much, and it's..."

"Sometimes it just helps to get it out?"

"Yeah. Can we...can we talk about something else now? Please?"

“Yeah.”

But they fell silent after that, neither of them really having much luck coming up with anything, and neither of them quite ready to go back inside and deal with the others, either.

So they sat there, watching the clouds drift across the sky, each buried in his own thoughts and memories.

It wasn’t until hours later, when he and Dean were already halfway back to the bunker, that Sam realized he’d forgotten to ask _why_ Naomi was so interested in Nick’s soul.


	43. Part 4, Chapter 10: Amelia

 

**Amelia**

 

Amelia was settled in a Starbucks, trying to focus on her book and not obsess too much about the meeting the others were having a few blocks away. She didn’t think it was a good idea for Adam to see his brothers, not yet. Not while he was still so…shadowed, maybe. The word didn’t quite fit, but it was the best she could come up with.

But he’d wanted it, and Nick and Claire seemed to think it was a reasonable idea. And they knew Sam and Dean better than she did, and especially Nick might have a better idea of whether the meeting would help or hurt. Besides, Claire had promised to check in with her after an hour, to confirm that everything was going well.

She’d thought about staying with them at the motel, but in the end had come down on the side she’d mostly taken since they’d started Tenebamus Infinitum in the first place. That meant keeping her involvement with anything approaching what had happened to them as peripheral as possible, and handling all of their practical, mundane concerns instead. And Sam and Dean Winchester were _way_ too involved. And they were still friends with Castiel. The farther she stayed away from them, the better.

So, she was waiting here, checking her phone every couple minutes, reading the same page of her book over and over again without taking it in.

And then someone sat down across from her.

Amelia looked up, automatically reaching for the holy water she kept in her purse, and considering the best way to test the man who had joined her. Public places were usually safe, even unwarded, at least for short periods. But it was impossible to be too careful where demons were concerned.

He was dark-haired, stocky, bearded, wearing an obviously expensive black suit and a muted blue patterned silk tie. He smiled slightly at her. “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Novak,” he said, then blinked and, for a moment, his eyes turned red.

Her heart dropped and she froze, gripping the holy water flask tight enough that it hurt. She’d never actually--since she was _possessed,_ she’d never--she tested, compulsively, everyone she met, every time Nick or Claire reappeared after more than a day separated, or did something out of pattern, she tested, but she’d never--her tests had never been _positive._

She had an exorcism at the tip of her tongue--she had it memorized just as thoroughly as her brother and her daughter did--and the holy water was _in her hands,_ but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t _move._ All she could think about was Sam, Sam Winchester covered in blood, and a gun in her hands, and oily smoke screaming out of her, and--

“Relax, Mrs. Novak,” the demon said, with a faint taste of amusement. It blinked and its eyes turned human again. “I’m not here to make trouble for you.”

She didn’t say anything. She _couldn’t_ say anything.

“My name is Crowley,” it said.

_Oh God._

“I’m here to make you an offer.”

_…what?_

That unfroze her, at least a little. “I’m not--whatever it is, the answer is no,” she said, her voice shaking only a little. “I don’t…I don’t deal with…please go away.”

It smiled again, sharklike. “You don’t even know what’s on the table.”

“I don’t _care._ ” She tried to make her legs work, tried to get them under her, tried to stand up, tried to walk away.

It reached into its pocket and she jerked, reflexively, spilling holy water everywhere but where it would be useful.

But all it pulled out was a ring.

_Nick’s_ ring.

“You know what this is, don’t you.”

She swallowed, and nodded.

“If I recall correctly, he’s rather attached to it,” it said, dancing the ring between its fingers like a coin. “Losing it seemed more painful than anything else my boys and I tried. And there wasn’t much we didn’t try.”

She wanted to punch it. Or strangle it. Or _something._ “Shut up,” she breathed instead, through gritted teeth.

It smirked, then caught the ring and held it up, with an open palm. “You can have it back.”

“…in exchange for what?” She may be weak, she may have frozen, but she was _not_ an idiot.

“Information,” it said, closing its fist around the ring again. “Only information.”

_Only_ information--as if a well-informed demon couldn’t shake the world to its core. This very one had before, she knew that. _And_ this one called itself the King of Hell. And now it was dangling her brother’s sanity on a golden thread, asking for only information. Besides, even if the bargain _had_ been innocuous, she would’ve had to explain to Nick how she’d gotten the ring back. He didn’t need that guilt.

Well, it had made her mad, at least. Mad enough to find her feet. “You can go screw yourself,” Amelia said, and stood up and started to walk away.

“And what if,” it called softly, “I put security on the table?”

She paused. _No. Don’t do it. Walk away. Just walk away._ “What do you mean?”

“My boys leave you alone,” it said. “You, and your daughter, and Nick, and the other stray Archangel vessel you’ve managed to acquire. As long as I’m King, no demon will dare darken your door. Ever again. Your home, wherever you make it, will be completely off-limits.”

_Don’t do it. Walk away. Just keep walking._

The demon was like any other loan shark. If she took this deal, if she accepted what it offered, she would never be free of the debt.

But it was actually offering her safety. _Stability._ No more demons, ever. Other than the ones Claire sought out for their hosts’ sake. That still left angels, stalking her daughter’s dreams, of course, but…

Freedom from demons. For the rest of their lives.

She swallowed and turned around. “What kind of information?”

It smiled, and gestured for her to resume her seat.

With legs like lead, she obeyed.

“When Dean Winchester lost control of his unfortunate bargain with Gadreel, the angel walked away with two valuable pieces of stone,” Crowley said. “I want you to determine what he and Metatron did with the demon tablet. I’m willing to forego the angel tablet, for now.”

“What makes you think I can?”

“You have connections,” it said airily. “Or, more accurately, your daughter does. And she tells you everything, I’m sure.”

Well, not _everything,_ but something like that...yeah, Claire would tell her. “So…all I’d have to do is find the demon tablet,” she said.

“You don’t even need to retrieve it,” it replied. “Just tell me where it is.”

“And then Hell will leave us alone.”

“For the rest of your lives.”

It was tempting. It was _so_ tempting. And it wasn’t like Crowley could read the tablet without a prophet, and Kevin Tran was dead. It was so small a price to pay for her family’s safety.

She took a deep breath. “And what if I refuse?”

It bared its teeth in something like a smile. “Refuse and find out.”

She shivered. “What happens if you don’t like the answer?” If angels had the tablet, it stood to reason the thing was in Heaven, where Crowley couldn’t get it.

“My word is good, Mrs. Novak,” it said, with the barest hint of reproach. “Getting to the tablet is my problem. You deliver the information, and you’ll be protected.”

So, it had a level of integrity--or it claimed one, at least. “And what if I fail?” Whatever the demon’s opinion of Claire’s “connections,” Amelia wasn’t at all sure she could deliver. If she even took the deal.

It shrugged. “I can be reasonable. If you fail, we retain the status quo--no protection, but no bounty either. Or we can renegotiate after, say, three months.”

Just like she suspected--a damned loan shark.

But--security. _Safety._ Freedom from demons, for all of them. She wouldn’t have to worry about someone else trying to crack Nick’s brain open for whatever scraps of knowledge Lucifer had left behind, or someone taking revenge on Claire for a successful exorcism, or…

And he couldn’t even read the tablet anymore.

She nodded, shakily. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent,” it said, then pulled out a rolled contract from its jacket pocket. “Just sign at the bottom. You deliver information on the location of the tablet within three months, and your home, your family will be safe from demons. Forever.”

Again, she nodded, and pulled out a pen and signed without looking, as quickly as she could, then closed her eyes and shoved the contract back across the table.

By the time she could bring herself to look up again, the demon had vanished.

Her phone rang, and she jumped about a mile, almost knocking over her coffee. She took several deep, measured breaths--Claire, checking in. Okay, good. At least one of them was--

She answered. "Hey, sweetheart. Everything going okay?"

"Yeah. Nick and Sam wandered off, but Adam was cool with being alone with Dean for a bit," she said. "I sort of got the feeling he wanted to ask him something in private, but I don't know for sure. ...are you okay?"

"Of course," she said, as lightly as she could manage. "Just...I've been worrying." And she _had_ been. She just wasn't about to tell Claire everything she was worrying about.

"We're _fine,_ Mom," Claire said, and she could practically hear her daughter rolling her eyes. "No one's freaking out, Nick didn't pass out--I can see where he and Sam are sitting, and they both look okay. We're _all_ okay. I told you we would be."

"Yeah. Yeah, you did."

“You sure you don’t want to come up here?” Claire asked. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to--like I said, we’re all _fine_ \--but…”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said. “So, you’re still down at the coffee shop?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be up here, but I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you. I’ll definitely come back up when it gets dark, whether or not you’re still with them,” she said.

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” Claire agreed.

“I should let you get back to the others,” Amelia said. “Let me know if anything changes, or starts going wrong, or if you need me for whatever reason.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Be safe.”

“Yeah.” Claire hung up and Amelia set the phone down and closed her eyes.

_Did I really just do that? Did I_ really _just make that bargain?_

It was too late to change her mind now. She just had to keep telling herself it was worth it. That she wasn’t giving away too much. That she would, somehow, be able to reach the end of the arrangement, despite all the red flags it had thrown up.

Maybe if she said it often enough, by the time she found what the demon wanted, she would even believe it.


	44. Part 4, Chapter 11: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

They were maybe halfway back to the bunker when Dean finally spoke. “So, uh, we should…there’s some things we should probably discuss.”

Sam didn’t answer right away, but after a moment, he sighed and said, “Yeah, okay.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. So. About the Gadreel thing, I--”

He instantly closed off. “I’ve said all I have to say about that, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I haven’t.”

“You’ve said enough. You said you’d do it again.”

“To save you? Yeah, I would. And I get that you would abandon me--”

“Abandon--Dean, that is _not_ what I said,” Sam snapped. “What the hell.”

“What the hell else do you call saying you wouldn’t save me?” he shot back.

“Wouldn’t save--pull over.”

He blinked. “Sam, what--”

“I’m not gonna storm off,” he interrupted quietly. “But if we’re gonna do this, you shouldn’t be freaking driving at the same time.”

Okay. Fair point. “Fine.”

They drove on in stony silence for a couple more minutes, until Dean found a place where they could pull off and shout at each other in safety as well as privacy. “Okay,” he said, then parked, and turned to stare at his brother. “You were just explaining how saying you wouldn’t save me doesn’t count as abandoning me.”

Sam drew in and then let out a breath, slowly. “I said _same circumstances,_ Dean. You do remember that part, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, that part _means_ something. Of course I would never abandon you, and of _course_ I would save you--but if saving you meant putting you in a position where I _know_ you’d rather die? _Fuck,_ Dean, no, I wouldn’t. I would fucking respect what I know your limits are. I have before. That’s what I meant by _same circumstances._ ” His eyes were glittering a little, and he stopped, letting out another breath. “And even if Gadreel had turned out to be everything he told you he was, even if Kevin hadn’t--even if, you still lied to me, for _months._ ”

“It’s not like I had a fucking choice,” Dean said.

Sam scoffed. “Yeah.”

“No, I mean it,” he said. “He told me--he told me if I told you, and you kicked him out, you’d die. And, yeah, I was stupid to listen to him, I _get_ that now, believe me, but while it was happening--while it was happening, telling you was as good as killing you, and I couldn’t do that. And letting you die, when I could do something about it--even something terrible, even something I knew you’d hate--I couldn’t do _that,_ either.”

“So you made the choice for me.”

“Yeah.”

“And now Kevin’s dead, and I have another dozen or so nightmares to live with.”

Dean looked away. “Yeah. Look, man, I tried...I did try to tell you. Maybe not as soon as I should have. But he...took over. He wouldn’t let me. But I _did_ try.”

“Eventually.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Eventually.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. “Did you even--did you even consider being honest from the start? _Telling_ me what this fucking Hail Mary pass actually was?”

_No, because you would have shot me down,_ he thought. All he said was, as quiet and calm as he could muster, “Would you have done it?”

“I don’t--” Sam cut himself off, and bit his lip. “I don’t know. Probably not. But maybe. I don’t _know,_ is the point, Dean, and you didn’t give me the chance to decide. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make that kind of choice for me, even when it means maybe letting me die. _Especially_ when the odds are I’d do the opposite of what you want.”

“I don’t…” He trailed off, then sighed. “I don’t know if I can do that, Sammy.”

“Can you at least try?” he pleaded. “I just…I just need you to be freaking honest with me, okay? And maybe try to--at least _try_ to remember that my life and death might not be about you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You said it before,” Sam reminded him. “When you sold your soul for me.”

Dean winced a little. “Yeah, okay.”

“So, that’s twice--at least--that you’ve made a decision about my life and death without thinking about what I might want, and it hasn’t exactly ended well either time,” he said. “At least last time you admitted it was selfish, and probably a bad idea.”

“Wait, do you think I don't fucking realize that now?” he asked.

“You said you’d do it again!”

“Yeah, I--okay, yeah, I did say that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.”

Sam let out a breath. “Then…what, Dean? Because I can’t let you do that again. And it’s my life so I’m pretty sure I should be the one getting the last word.”

“Except it’s _not_ just your life,” Dean said. “The two of us, man--I told you, back in the church, and when…I _told_ you. And you said you were okay with living then.”

It was Sam’s turn to look away. “Yeah, I did. And I…yeah. Okay.” He sighed. “I don’t…I think I’ve been…maybe mixing it up a little bit. What we agreed in the church, and what you did with Gadreel. And I’m sorry. Because they're two different things, and I shouldn’t…I _did_ make a choice there, and maybe I regret it now--”

“Sam--”

“Maybe I regret it now,” he went on, “but that part’s not on you. I have to own my choices, too.” He sighed again. “I think…I guess we just need to…we need to be clear, on what’s okay and what’s not. And then we need to…we need to _agree_ to respect what’s okay, and not do something that’s not.”

A little piece of Dean’s heart broke at that, but he had to nod. “Okay.”

“No more angels,” Sam said. “No more deals. If either of us ends up possessed or in Hell, it’s not worth it.”

He swallowed. “Okay.”

“Anything you want to add?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Wait,” he said, remembering that--the formula, the other choice that Sam had reminded him about. "No one turns into a monster. Of any kind. Unless we...unless both of us stay human, we don't...we don't do it."

“Okay.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. …why’d you bring this up now? It’s been ages since the last time we…”

He hesitated a minute before answering. “Just something Adam said.”

“Yeah?”

“He said…when I told him, he said it sounded like something Michael would do.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “And he wasn’t wrong.”

"Oh." Sam chewed on that silently for a moment, but didn't deny it. Or agree, for that matter, but...yeah.

"...what did you think I wanted to ask?" Dean said, after the silence had stretched long enough.

"Nick," he said.

"Right." Yeah, he should ask those questions, too. "What the hell was he _doing,_ Sam?"

"Short version?" Sam said. "Naomi told Claire, who told him, that some pretty weird stuff happened to his soul, while he was possessed. Like, beyond the normal...damage. So he freaked out, and he was trying to figure out if she'd told the truth, and apparently decided the best way to do that was to...I don't know, meditate or something, by the Cage entrance. He thought something there might trigger the right memory, help him figure it all out."

" _...seriously?_ "

"He was scared, Dean. He thought he...he thought he somehow wasn't _human_ anymore. He needed answers," he said. "But he didn't expect to...he wasn't expecting to make contact, otherwise I don't think he would have gone at all. And he promised me he's never going back."

"Good," he said. "So, then, Adam was...what? An accident, like he said? I don't buy that."

"You want to know what I think?"

"Yeah."

"I think Adam was a bribe," Sam said flatly.

All of the implications of that hit Dean like a thunderbolt. " _Shit._ "

"Nick agrees. We talked about it some."

“Okay, and?”

Sam gave him a flat look.

Dean held up his hands. “I know, I know, Vessel Cone of Silence, I get it--look, I’m not asking for details, but…”

“Like I said, he’s promised me he won’t go back,” he said, after a minute. “And he knows he can call me to talk him down off the ledge if something like this comes up again.”

“You really think that’s likely?”

Sam shrugged. “Wouldn’t’ve thought it would happen the first time. But he knows what he’d be risking now.”

“So you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s enough for you? You’re okay with that?”

“For now,” he said.

“For now?”

“I don’t like that Naomi’s after him,” Sam said. “I don’t like that whatever she wants him to do was important enough to him that he took the risk. I think he’ll be smarter about it now, but…”

“Yeah.” Dean sighed and got them on the road again. “So what’s the plan?”

“Keep in touch,” Sam said. “If he has problems, deal with it then.”

“By locking him down?”

“If I have to,” he said grimly. “But _only_ if I have to. He said…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “It’ll freak him out, and it’s probably better if he trusts me.”

“Okay. Your call,” Dean said. “Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

“Yeah.”

They fell silent, then, watching the miles tick by and--okay, it wasn’t _quite_ normal, not yet, but there was definitely less tension between them, at least.

It wasn’t everything Dean had wanted, and he sure as hell didn’t like everything they’d said, but at least it was a start.


	45. Part 4, Chapter 12: Castiel

 

**Castiel**

 

Things were, at long last, falling into place for Metatron’s downfall. Castiel had--despite his few faint lingering doubts--acquired an army; a network with which to track the Scribe. Sam and Dean seemed to have reached some sort of new equilibrium, though he wasn’t aware of the details on how. He had allies, the beginnings of a plan...he might, in short, actually achieve his goal with a minimum of collateral damage.

Of course, on the other hand, Metatron had wanted this. For some reason, Metatron had _planned_ on this, and that gave Castiel even more pause than his own imperfect record of command.

And then there was the matter of his Grace. He had yet to find a solution to that particular problem, and, as Metatron had pointed out, he could hardly ignore it for much longer. It was, in fact, looking more and more likely that he himself would be chiefest among the collateral damage of his current mission.

Perhaps it was because of that, or the idea the Men of Letters had given him that he didn’t dare actively entertain--or perhaps it was some odd sense of nostalgia, sparked by seeing his lost older brother again, in whatever form he’d been. But, for whatever reason, he had, on impulse, made vague excuses to his army and slipped off to find Claire Novak.

Locating her had been simple enough--she wasn’t warded, the way Sam and Dean still were, and he still heard her on occasion. He had, in fact, been considering this, off and on, since finding Jimmy in Heaven years ago. But there had always been something in the way, some mission or some lack of memory or resources. Now, however, there was nothing holding him back--he could afford a detour of a day or two, and it felt right, or important or even necessary, to do it.

But if finding her had been the simple part, actually making contact had been...less so. He’d finally decided to simply let her catch sight of him, in a suitably public place, and choose whether or not to approach.

She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath, steeled herself, and crossed the park to meet him.

She looked well, up close. By all indications a healthy and even largely happy young woman of about twenty. She was armed, lightly; carrying a taser and a bottle of holy water hidden in her pocket. She had learned and grown so much.

It made the meeting, at least for the angel, faintly disorienting in a way that he hadn’t expected. But he supposed that made sense--meeting an ex-vessel _was_ not unlike, to borrow a phrase that Castiel couldn't actually recall where he’d heard, looking into a funhouse mirror. Though, of course, Castiel's currently wavering perceptions and the fact that Claire had been little more than a child when they'd been together might well have contributed to the strangeness of the whole thing.

A teenaged human, after all, changed a great deal over nearly seven years.

It seemed to be just as uncomfortable for her, meeting him again. She shifted her grip on her taser in a way that wasn't quite nervous, but somewhere in the same family. Wary, maybe, or perhaps uncertain. That seemed right.

"Hello, Claire," he finally said, after the awkward silence had stretched between them for a full two minutes.

She nodded in response. "I, um. I didn't expect to ever see you again."

"I thought it might be easier for you and your mother if I kept my distance."

"Yeah." She looked down, still toying with her weapon.

"I did everything I could to make sure the two of you were safe," he said.

"I know," she said. "Look, Castiel, I don't...I don't...I'm not pissed at you. Not anymore. Okay, I mean, that's not totally...okay, I _am_ pissed, but not enough to...it's mostly because you lied to me."

He blinked. He didn't recall lying to Claire--or Jimmy, either, for that matter. Lying to a vessel was...it wasn't something one _did._

"You promised me you'd save them," she said quietly. "My parents. Plural."

Oh. "I did make another agreement with your father," he acknowledged. And that second possession had led to Jimmy’s death. "That was not fair to you. And I'm sorry for that." He hadn’t _intended_ to lie, of course, but failing to keep a promise was nearly as bad. And he had, obviously, done that. He could understand her anger.

But she was shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I get that part. It doesn't make me _happy,_ but I...that's not what pissed me off. Besides, that was Daddy's choice, at least as much as yours, and if I can’t be mad at _him_ for it..."

He blinked again, and waited for her to elaborate.

"You were going to let him die."

Oh. "I was...I was going to let him go to Heaven," he explained. "I thought...at least at the time, I thought that would be safest for him.” And, despite all of the upheaval in Heaven in the years since, he could probably still call that true, as well--Jimmy was safest where he was. “I’m sorry. It was never my intent to deceive you."

"I know," she said. "Or a part of me does, anyway. Like I said, I don't...I don't hate you for it. Not anymore, at least. I'm still...part of me is always gonna be pissed about it, you know? But I've moved past it for the most part, I think. Mom still kind of hates you, but I don't."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," he said. It would be very upsetting, of course, but he _had_ misled her, however unintentionally, and he had as good as killed her father. That was more than enough cause for resentment. And even though it had never been his plan to hurt any of them...well, his intentions could only count for so much.

Claire shook her head again. "I _can't_ hate you. I mean, I may not like you very much either, and talking with you is definitely--it's _weird,_ okay, because you're still possessing my freaking _dad,_ but..." She hesitated for a breath. "The thing is, I really like who I am now. And I _love_ what I do. And none of that...I wouldn't be who I am, or do what I do, if you hadn't possessed me."

"I see," he said.

She smiled a little. "I remember feeling...infinite. And I spent a long time chasing that feeling. And eventually I found it--or something like it. I help...people like me. People who’ve been possessed. It takes some...it takes effort, learning how to live after. But...I mean...I never would have _looked,_ if not for you. And what I do, for ex-vessels and former hosts? It's important. It's _good._ And I can't hate the entity who made it possible."

This was not at all what he’d expected to hear from her. True, it was better than he’d feared--but perhaps not quite what he’d hoped, either.

It was, though, on reflection and after hearing her thoughts on the subject, probably something close to an appropriate reaction, if there was such a thing for a situation such as theirs.

He smiled back at her. “You’re a very wise young woman, Claire.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

“And you know you can always call on me if you need help,” he said, a little impulsively--enough people were hunting him that that may have not been a wise promise to make, but _this_ one he would keep, at least until Theo’s Grace ran out on him. He owed her that much. “You used to, I remember.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, then waved a little and walked back to the other side of the park, returning to whatever he’d interrupted.

He watched her go, feeling a strange sort of relief. This--his failed promises to Claire, and the impact he’d had on her life--had been unfinished business he hadn’t thought of in years. But now that it was taken care of, now that they had shared some uncomfortable truths and come out the other side, he was glad. She was doing well, and she didn’t hate him. He hadn’t treated her as fairly as he should have, but nor had he completely ruined her life. He could make peace with that chapter of his story--with those mistakes--and move on. Perhaps this was what humans found so comforting, about what they called ‘getting their affairs in order.’

But for all that he’d settled with Claire, he still had so much to do--an army to manage, a foe to track, friends to guide and protect for as long as he could.

He headed back to his car, putting his former vessel out of his mind and bracing himself for what was sure to be several trying days to come.


	46. Part 5, Chapter 1: Castiel

 

**Castiel**

 

The summoning ritual yanked Castiel unceremoniously away from his research--fortunately, he hadn’t been driving or he might have accidentally hurt someone in the process; and, equally lucky, he hadn’t even been talking with anyone and would thus be able to avoid awkward explanations later--and dropped him into an empty, crumbling warehouse.

After a moment, he recognized it. He'd been here before. This was where Gabriel had first resurfaced, after centuries in hiding--resurfaced only to disappear again, or die, and then reappear in Metatron's camp. Or maybe not, maybe he was still dead; Castiel and Hannah had been unable to confirm one way or the other.

Regardless, Gabriel was not here now, and therefore was probably not his summoner. As the last waves of energy from the spell faded, he noticed the warehouse was divided down the middle by a line of holy fire, between him and the door. He was trapped.

And he wasn't alone.

He stiffened, recognizing the angel on the other side of the fire. " _Naomi._ "

She smiled slightly. "I'm not here to fight you, Castiel," she said.

She had said that before, too, the last time they'd met. Right before Metatron had killed her, and then...

"You're supposed to be dead," he said.

She nodded, gesturing around them at the warehouse. "Metatron wasn't the only one who borrowed from our beloved older brother's playbook."

"You faked your death."

She nodded again. "Yes. When you wouldn't listen, it was too late to stop him by myself. So I chose to retreat and strategize, try to figure out a way to undo it after."

"And can you reverse the spell? Have you learned how?" For the moment, he almost forgot his shock and anger that she was alive, that she was _here,_ and he actually started to hope that--well, if anyone would know how to fix this mess, it would be Naomi.

"Not...directly, not for sure, and not entirely from Metatron," she said. "I only got bits and pieces from him. He's...canny. I've been trying to fill in the blanks since then. Dying enabled me to avoid getting tangled up with the factions, which left me free to work. Only Bartholomew ever learned of my deception, and he wasn't strong enough to take me down. And he certainly wasn't about to step aside for me. So I knew he would never tell."

But only for a moment. Obviously, her so-called change of heart had been nothing but an act. She had been lurking in the shadows, like always, waiting for a chance to strike. He'd compare her to a spider if he wanted to insult arachnids. "Then what do you want, Naomi?"

"I’m only about eighty percent certain of what I’ve put together with regard to restoring Heaven, as I said. But if I am right about the way I’ve filled in the blanks, I will need your help," she said.

He glowered at her, coming as close as the fire as he dared, looking right in her eyes. "I'm _done_ helping you."

She held his eyes calmly and flashed him another false, kind, poisonous little half-smile. "I know I've given you every reason to mistrust me. Why do you think I brought holy oil with me?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"A barrier," she said. "So neither of us can harm the other."

He stiffened. For all the cause he'd been given, he had _never_ harmed Naomi. How _dare_ she imply they were equally at fault?

"But not," she continued, before he had a chance to respond, "a binding."

"...what?"

"Look around you, Castiel," she said. "The fire is only keeping you from reaching me. You can leave the warehouse at any time. And the reverse is true as well."

She wasn't lying. For once, she wasn't lying. She had only summoned him, not bound him. And if the door was on her side, well, he could get through one of the walls with minimal difficulty, even now.

"What game are you playing?" he asked.

"I told you," she said. "I aim to restore Heaven. And I need your help."

"Why me?"

"Two reasons," Naomi replied. "First, you have access to any notes that the prophet Kevin Tran may have left. I have most of the solution, but I would like to verify if at all possible, and he might have had the last pieces. I’d ask him directly, but I haven't been able to find his ghost in the Veil."

He frowned. He might be able to copy Kevin's notes, if they'd been left at the bunker. Of course, he wasn't at all sure he even should, at least not for Naomi. But that wasn't the main problem. "Assuming I'm willing to do this, how do you know you'll find what you need?" Kevin had only translated about half of the tablet, if that, and he'd thought parts of it were deliberately damaged or obscured.

"I don't," she admitted. "But resurrecting him would set off too many alarms, if I could even find his soul, and, as I said, I haven't had much luck with that. If I can't find what I need in his notes, I'll act on my educated guesses. But some sort of confirmation would ease my mind."

Her reasoning made sense, unfortunately. But he still wasn't entirely sure he wanted to agree to what she asked, even this first part. "You said you needed two things from me," he asked, to buy himself some time before answering. "Kevin's notes are the first, what is the second?"

"If my guesses are correct--what did you do with the remains of the nephil girl you murdered last year?"

He glowered at her. "I _thought_ I was doing the right thing."

She held up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I apologize. My wording was needlessly accusatory. The girl whose heart was used for the spell. Do you have access to the rest of her remains?"

"Yes," he said. He'd insisted on taking the time to give her a proper burial, despite Metatron's impatience. Abomination or not, she had deserved that. After all, Sam was still something of an abomination, and one of his dearest friends. And he himself might be called one, in certain circles, for certain things he’d done, and not without reason. Abomination was just a word.

"I will need her head."

Castiel stared at her. "Her head? Why?"

"The three things Metatron needed were symbols of the descent towards the border between angel and human, from the angelic side," she said. "The heart of one of the Nephilim, a Cupid's bow, and the Grace of a humanlike angel."

He blinked. "Humanlike?"

Naomi tilted her head, considering. "You are an impossible being, you know that?"

He frowned, confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"An angel," she said, "in a vessel without a soul--not a construct, like Anna used, but a _vessel._ With its soul gone. What you are should be impossible."

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't deliberate."

"Of course not," Naomi said. "But even before Metatron stole your Grace, you were the closest thing an angel could be to being human. Other than Anna, of course, but she's dead."

"That explains why Metatron needed me," he pointed out, a little uneasy, before moving off the topic. "But nothing about why you need Jane's head."

"My theory is that, to reverse the spell, I will need to collect three similar items, but mirrored--symbols, this time, of the ascent towards that border from the human side. And if a nephil’s heart is symbolic of her human parent--the earthly passions and impulses that make them what they are--then her mind is likely symbolic of her angelic parent--logic and intellect," Naomi said. "Passions bring angels closer to humanity, and intellect is, at least in theory, what elevates humanity over the rest of the creatures native to Earth."

Again, he could follow that line of reasoning well enough. "Very well. Assuming I decide to help you, I will retrieve Jane's head." It was the least he could do, after causing all this trouble in the first place.

Assuming, of course, he decided to help her.

"Thank you, Castiel," she said, bowing her head slightly.

"And what about the other two components?"

"I admit I'm at something of a loss for the second," she said. "But I'm still searching."

“And the third?”

“Claire is helping me with that.”

_Claire._

Castiel glared at her, advancing perilously close to the barrier again. "What have you done to her?"

"I offered her counsel," Naomi said. "And I warded her dreams, when I could, safely. I have not--and I _will_ not--harm her. She needed advice and protection, which I was happy to give."

He stared at her.

She sighed. "And I need something she has."

"What?"

"Nick," she said.

He blinked. "Lucifer's vessel?"

"Yes. I know you saw, even though I made you look away. The marks on his soul are far more than ordinary possession scars."

He did remember--shining threads woven in and around Nick’s soul and body, next to impossible to see without actively examining him. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I think that he was...altered," she said, slowly. "I haven't gotten much of a chance to examine the scars myself. Even what I saw through you wasn't definitive. But between that, and what Claire has been willing and able to tell me, I think his soul will activate the reversal. The same way your Grace activated the initial spell."

"Why?"

"As I said, this is all theoretical," she reminded him. "But my thought is--Lucifer needed him to stay alive. But you, of all angels, know that there are some things that cannot be survived by a vessel. And a slow burn, like the one Nick was forced to endure, is just as irreversible as what you and Jimmy Novak suffered."

He nodded. "I was...not expecting to see him alive again, after he'd been abandoned. Even if he was still alive in the immediate aftermath, he should not have been able to recover."

"The demon blood helped, to an extent. But it wouldn't have been enough. Not by a long shot."

"So?"

"Lucifer has altered human souls before," Naomi said. "To a different purpose, yes, but the principle is the same. And he needed Nick to stay alive."

"So you think..."

"I think that, much as you are an angel who approaches humanity, Nick is a human who approaches angelhood."

That revelation hung between them for a moment, and Castiel had to admit, thinking back on what he'd seen of Nick's soul...

Not that that necessarily applied to what Naomi wanted it for, but it was something to think about.

"This is all, of course, theoretical," he said, slowly.

Naomi nodded. "That's why I need the prophet's notes. To confirm that, and the other pieces, and how to combine them. And to try and puzzle out exactly what Lucifer did to him, and to see if there's a way to do this that allows him to survive."

Castiel blinked. "You would keep him alive?"

"If I can," she said. "Claire loves him, and I've grown fond of Claire."

"...maybe you have changed," he admitted grudgingly.

She laughed. "In bits and pieces, brother."

It felt so strange, hearing her call him that.

"So, will you work with me?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I still don't trust you." _And my rushing into things made this mess in the first place._ "I need time to think."

She nodded. "Then think. Leave a message for me here, when you've made up your mind."

He nodded. "Very well."

"Oh, and Castiel?"

"Yes?"

"By all means, confer with your allies before you make your final decision," she said. "I still don't have all the details I need, and it's unwise to underestimate them. They may even be able to assist in identifying the second component. But please, leave my name out of it, until they've said how the plan sounds without baggage."

He hesitated, then nodded again, slowly. "Very well. I will."

“Thank you,” she said, with a slight bow. “I’m going to leave now. But, as I said, I’ll stay in the area, if you need to reach me.”

And she didn’t want him to watch her go. Fine, he could tolerate that, so long as she extended him the same courtesy. “I understand.”

“Goodbye, Castiel,” she said. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed for the warehouse door. He gave her five minutes to get clear, then went for the closest wall to create his own exit.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to do, but, if nothing else, Naomi had given him a great deal to think about. And if she _had_ found a way to repair Heaven…

At this point, he was almost certain he would agree. He would only be forced to work with her for a short time, after all, and what he would gain would make that worth it. He’d certainly done worse things for less justification in the past.

Yes. He would confer with his friends and allies, and then reach back out to her. Fixing what Metatron--and he--had broken was worth a pact with Naomi. All he had to do now was find the rest of what they needed.


	47. Part 5, Chapter 2: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

It took Cas less than five minutes to sum up the situation--he’d been contacted by someone who, without a prophet, had somehow managed to figure out how to fix the freaking fallen angels mess.

It took Sam and Dean even less time to climb on board.

"Okay, so, we're in," Dean said. "How much do you trust your contact's intel?" It was sort of weird that Cas wasn't giving a name, but he probably had a good reason.

"I'm not sure," the angel said frankly. "But neither is she. Based on what she thinks she knows, her logic is sound, but the source she's working from is...there are gaps."

"Good times," he said.

“What do you need from us?” Sam asked.

"If you still have them, I would like to take Kevin’s notes,” Cas answered. “That’s at least part of why I’m here. Our hope is that the two sets of incomplete information will line up and provide the full spell."

"Good idea," Sam said. "And, yeah, we still have pretty much everything stored here. I'll get them for you." He stood up and headed for Kevin's old room.

"So, what's your working theory so far?" Dean asked the angel, while they waited.

"There are three ingredients for the spell, just like the other one," he said. "And they correspond to the first spell's ingredients. The first, I can handle, and my contact has a lead on the third, but--"

"Wait," Dean said. "The third part of the other spell was your Grace. Does this mean neutering another angel?"

Cas avoided his eyes. "It's possible," he said. "But my contact has another theory."

"Yeah?"

"She thinks we need a soul."

Dean stared at him. "So, you're going to rip out someone's soul for this? That _really_ seems like a good idea to you?"

"My contact may be wrong," he said. "I hope she is, very much. And if she isn't, we won't do anything unless he agrees."

Dean couldn't decide if making sure the poor bastard was willing made it better or worse. "So, there's a specific soul you need."

Cas nodded. " _If_ my contact is right," he repeated, "we know whose soul it would be, and she has a way to get in touch with him."

"Here," Sam said, rejoining them and putting a cardboard box full of composition books and assorted papers on the table. "...what did I miss?"

"The theory my contact has for the third spell ingredient is...problematic," Cas hedged.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

He arched an eyebrow. “Meaning what?”

“They need a soul. A specific soul,” Dean said.

Sam paused. “...I’m guessing Naomi’s your contact?”

Cas blinked. “How did…?”

_…well, that explains a lot._

“She got in touch with Nick about some weirdness in his soul,” Dean said.

“And I couldn’t figure out what she wanted, or why he handled it the way he did, but if it’s for this…” Sam shook his head.

“What do you mean, handled it?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a long look.

“Short version: he took a stupid, _stupid_ risk to confirm what she told him, and somehow walked away with Adam.”

Cas stared at them for a long moment. “...I think you’re going to have to give me a little more detail than that, Dean.”

Sam filled in the blanks, as quickly as he could. “Nick told me once,” he added at the end, “that sealing Heaven was the hill he’d choose to die on.”

“This isn’t sealing Heaven. It’s fixing what Metatron broke,” Cas pointed out.

“I know. But I think it’s close enough that, for him...”

He sighed. “All of that aside--for the moment, anyway--yes, Naomi is my contact, and her theory is that Nick’s soul is the third component. But in any case," the angel went on, "it might not matter. We're not sure what the second component is yet. And I didn't see Metatron actually cast the first spell. There may be some sort of incantation or activation by fire or water...we don't know."

"We can try to help with that," Sam said.

"I was hoping you would," Cas said. "The main question for now is the second ingredient. For the other spell, it was a Cupid's bow. This one likely requires something similar, but for human use."

"So, somewhere, there's a weapon we can use to screw with angels' love lives?" Dean asked.

Cas shook his head. "It might not be that specific. But it will be some sort of tool that humans use to affect Heaven. Assuming that Naomi’s information is correct, of course."

Sam blinked. “Or something that links humans to Heaven?”

“Perhaps. Why, what are you thinking?”

“Hold on,” he said, then headed down to the storerooms.

Dean and Cas exchanged a glance, then got up to follow him.

“I know we put it in here somewhere…” Sam was saying, shifting boxes around in one of the storerooms they’d tried to organize last year, then abandoned when the Trials got more heated.

“What are you looking for?” Cas asked.

“Got it!” Sam came out from behind a stack of boxes carrying a narrow, flat one about the length of his forearm. “The Spear of Destiny.”

“...God’s toothpick?”

“The Lance of Longinus--yes, that should work,” Cas said. “Or any other artifact of a sufficiently potent martyrdom. That does seem to be the way humans affect the course of Heaven the most.”

“Good times,” Dean said, after a beat.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas said. “Thank you both. I’ll be in touch as soon as everything else is set.”

_In case he needs us to help with Naomi, or any other fallout,_ Dean thought. Because it probably would have been just as easy for Cas to just take the Spear and go.

Instead, the angel handed it back to Sam, who accepted it with a nod. “We’ll be ready,” he promised.

Cas nodded and headed out.

“So,” Dean said. “Naomi?”

Sam nodded. “We’ll be ready for her, too.”

“Yeah.” She was probably a better option than Metatron, at least. Or they had to hope she was. “You gonna call Nick and let him know?”

“Yeah,” he said. He carefully put the Spear back on the shelf, but one closer to the door this time.

“All right.”

The two of them left the storeroom, Sam locking it behind them, and headed back upstairs to plan for the worst--after all, it never hurt to be prepared, especially with people like Naomi and Metatron involved. And given the fire Nick had been playing with earlier…

Yeah. Time for a disaster plan. Just in case.


	48. Part 5, Chapter 3: Castiel

 

**Castiel**

 

Hannah was, perhaps, not the wisest choice for this mission. Not because Castiel had any doubts about her competence--rather the opposite. She was an extremely effective second-in-command. Under normal circumstances, he would pursue this by himself and leave her in charge of working on more practical ways to bring down Metatron.

But these were not normal circumstances.

The Grace he had stolen from Theo was fading. He could no longer, even to himself, deny the seriousness of his situation. It felt like acid pouring through his veins, and every action he took required just a little more effort, caused just a little more pain. He was weak, perhaps dying, and if-- _when_ \--Naomi turned on him, he would need support. More than Sam and Dean, for all their skill and friendship, could give him. And Hannah was idealistic and devotedly loyal, to the point where it came uncomfortably close to hero-worship. She had been the first to raise his banner, so to speak, in spite of his role in the Fall. If anyone was likely to remain loyal, despite Naomi, it was her.

So, leaving another lieutenant nominally in charge, he pulled Hannah aside. "I need your help with something."

"Of course, Castiel, anything," she said.

"This particular mission will require discretion."

She nodded. "What is it?"

"First, you should know that Naomi is alive." He'd promised Naomi to leave her name out of it when sharing her plan, but it wasn't the reversal spell he needed Hannah's help with. As far as he was concerned, he had remained faithful to their agreement.

Hannah stilled. "So, we need to take her down, as well. I see."

He shook his head. "Not...yet."

"Why not? You know what she is."

_Better than most, I think._ "Yes. But she has uncovered at least most of a counter-spell to what Metatron did."

Her eyes widened. "You're sure?"

"I don't trust her," he said. "But I do believe that she's as anxious to get home and deal with Metatron as the rest of us. And I believe that her information, though incomplete, is accurate."

"So, for the time being, she is working toward the same goal as we are, and we need her," Hannah concluded for him.

"Yes."

"What's our play, then?" she asked.

"Naomi is gaining access to one of the items we need, and I've already retrieved another. Sam and Dean Winchester have the last. If we've filled in the gaps correctly, we should be able to cast the spell within the next few weeks. What I'm concerned about is the aftermath."

She frowned. "Metatron is more powerful than he should be, but surely we can overwhelm him. Your followers outnumber his."

"That is true, and perhaps we can," he acknowledged, "but at the moment I'm more concerned about my alliance with Naomi breaking down."

"You think she'll attack you when you no longer need each other?"

"I think it's a possibility." He sighed. "The simple fact is that I can't predict what she'll do, and I would like another angel there, one I can trust, in case things get violent."

"Of course," Hannah said, then frowned again. "Do you think you'll need so much help against Naomi? She has no allies anymore. Is she drawing power from the same source Metatron is?"

Castiel winced a little. He'd hoped to avoid this particular explanation, but it was a reasonable question. Especially given what he was asking of her. "No," he said. "Naomi is still isolated, as far as I know, and still an ordinary angel. The problem is with me."

"Is everything all right?"

He shook his head, then hesitated. "What I am going to tell you, I would not like you to repeat to anyone. And please, let me explain everything before you respond."

She nodded. "Of course."

He told her everything--how Metatron had duped him, how easily he'd fallen into the trap, even how Naomi had tried to warn him at the end.

And he told her about his Grace.

"I was desperate," he finished quietly. "Friends of mine were in danger, _I_ was in danger, and I had to kill Theo to escape in any case. And then I..." He looked away. "I did what I had to do."

True to her word, Hannah had heard him out without interruption. "I...think I understand," she said. "And I will help you with Naomi. Does anyone else know about this?"

"Sam and Dean Winchester know," he said. "As does Metatron. I've told no one else, but I doubt I'll be able to keep the secret much longer."

"So it's fading?"

"Yes."

Hannah nodded slowly. "I see. Thank you for trusting me with this."

“Of course. And you’ll keep it to yourself?”

“I will be very discreet. I promise.” She wore a faint, thoughtful frown--but if she planned to break with him for what he had done to Theo, surely she would be more direct about it. Hannah was not one for subterfuge.

“Thank you,” he said. “In the meantime, we otherwise continue business as usual. I will let you know as soon as we have everything in place.”

She nodded, that thoughtful frown smoothing off of her face. She gave him a brief salute, and then went back to the others to finish the task he’d pulled her from.


	49. Part 5, Chapter 4: Meg

 

**Meg**

 

Meg spotted Claire as soon as she got to the coffee shop--the bright blue hair was a dead giveaway, even without a close look at the human. One of these days, she'd have to ask the kid why the fuck she'd gone for it. She slid into the booth across from her. "Hey, kid. Got your message. What's up?"

"Thanks for coming," Claire said, relaxing a little and even smiling at her. "I need your help with something."

She arched an eyebrow and stole a fingerful of whipped cream from Claire's hot chocolate. "Well, I'm not doing anything special this weekend. What do you need, and what's in it for me?"

"I've been working with an angel, on getting them all back to Heaven."

"Really?" Meg said. "Huh. Well, good for you, kiddo, being civil with the enemy. Gold star. What's it got to do with me?"

"I need your help, like I said. Or, um, Naomi said we needed an elder demon, and I thought of you."

"Huh," Meg said again. "Sorry, pass."

Claire looked crestfallen. Kid was going to have to get a hell of a lot better at controlling her facial expressions if she wanted to survive getting into heavy Heaven and Hell politics.

Not that Meg cared.

"You haven't even heard what we want you to do," she protested.

"Nope," she said. "But, see, I don't think I want them all back to full power. Life's much better for demons when the playing field's a little more fucking level."

"I get that," she said. "But Naomi says she can't get his soul out without killing him, so we need a demon to do it. Please."

Meg's eyebrows shot up. "You need a soul? Just what, exactly, is this fucking spell?" Not that _she_ objected, of course, but for this to come from _Claire…_

"It's to send them all back to Heaven, I told you."

"Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that. But you need a soul for it?"

She nodded. "And Naomi said it had to be Nick's. We saved him together before, so I thought..."

_Well, that explains that part, at least._ More and _more_ intriguing. And, okay, maybe starting to pique Meg's interest. She _had_ been on to something, before, about Nick's soul and its potential uses. Fucking lucky Crowley had only hit on the intel source part while he'd held him.

Not that any of this was necessarily worth sending the flying monkeys back over the fucking rainbow, not yet, but it was enough to keep her there 'til Claire had finished trying to talk her into it, at least.

"All right, fine. I'll bite. What's in it for me?"

Claire took a deep breath. "Naomi will owe you a favor."

"Specific," she said. "But not bad." She knew Naomi by reputation, at least, and an open-ended debt from the former chief of celestial intelligence was a fucking good incentive. "What else?"

"This is the only chance we have to keep Nick alive," she said. "I know you like him, so..."

Meg rolled her eyes. "You said that already, sweetheart. What _else?_ "

Claire sighed. "Look, do it or don't, either it's worth it to you or it's not. But if you say no, Naomi will go to Crowley."

"Well, fuck that," she said. "I'm in." Like hell she was going to let fucking _Crowley_ claim a debt from Naomi. _That_ was worth giving all the angels their mojo back.

The kid brightened. "Great! Thank you so much."

Meg waved a hand and stole more whipped cream. "Whatever. I'm not doing it for you." _Much._ She liked the kid too fucking much. One of these days, she'd have to fix that.

Claire rolled her eyes. "I know. I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were, sweetheart." She reached for the whipped cream again but the kid blocked her hand.

"Get your own."

"That's less fun."

Another eyeroll.

Meg grinned and sat back in the booth. "So, why are _you_ in this, kid? Not exactly your type of thing, ripping out fucking souls to help angels."

She made a face and looked down at her drink. Her hair was just long enough to screen her face, without actually getting in the way. Smart.

"Because it's not my call. It's his."

"And he's in it."

She shrugged one shoulder.

"Must suck," she said.

"It's not about helping Naomi," Claire insisted, without looking up. "It's about keeping the angels pinned up where they belong and not screwing humans over."

"Fair enough," Meg said. "Of course, Metatron made them a hell of a lot fucking weaker, too."

"As long as they're not _here,_ it's worth it."

And there was the kid's easy fucking readability and blind fucking optimism biting her in the ass again. Yeah, probably most of the wingnuts would go home once they could, but _some_ of them would stay, fucking everyone else over.

And the poor dumb kid was desperately trying to convince herself otherwise, 'cause otherwise she'd go fucking nuts at everything Nick was risking.

Yeah. _Definitely_ gonna need to work on that fucking attachment problem. Fuck. Why did she have to _like_ people sometimes?

"Well, I've got a reason to play ball, so I will," she said. _Plus, someone with a fucking brain will be playing on Nick's team. For now._

“Good.”

“When are we throwing this fucking shindig, anyway?”

“I don’t know yet,” Claire admitted. “I can get in touch with you when it’s time.”

Meg shrugged. “Works for me. I’m gonna ditch my phone again, so try email.”

“Got it,” Claire said.

She stood up and stretched. “If that’s all, and you won’t give me any more whipped cream...”

“Mine.”

She rolled her eyes. “See you around then, kid. Try not to get dead before we do this.”

“You, too,” Claire said, all earnest and serious and _fuck._

She needed to go punch a fucking puppy or something, because this was fucking _ridiculous._ “Later,” she said, and sauntered out of the room, as if she hadn’t just signed up to take on the most powerful fucking angel in existence outside the Cage, with the King and the Knight already on her tail.

Not her brightest idea, maybe, but if they pulled it off, the pot of gold at the end of the fucking rainbow would be worth it.

It had fucking _better_ be.


	50. Part 5, Chapter 5: Castiel

 

**Castiel**

 

When Hannah came to Castiel and told him she’d found a way to restore his Grace-- _without_ killing another angel--he’d been elated.

But when she told him _how_ \--when she told him she’d made contact with Claire, and secured his former vessel’s aid in the matter...

It had been in the back of his mind, of course, ever since he’d reconnected with Claire, so soon after relieving Sam of the last traces of Gadreel’s Grace. It was impossible _not_ to think of it.

But she was only barely comfortable with him as it was, and he more than deserved it. He couldn’t ask her for anything else. She’d given him enough.

And the fact that Hannah had done so _for_ him, and and made some sort of bargain for her aid, without so much as consulting him first…

He immediately went to Claire to apologize.

"I don't get why you're so upset," Claire said. "I'm helping you. Everybody wins."

He would have thought she, of all people, might have understood. "Hannah should never have approached you. Not without speaking to me first."

"Oh," she said, with dawning comprehension and what looked like a flash of guilt. Which was the very _last_ thing he wanted. "I...I’m so sorry, I didn't realize that she hadn't. I wouldn't've agreed if I'd known." She hesitated. "Do you...do you not want my help?"

It was his turn to hesitate. He _did,_ of course he did. He'd made peace with his fate, of course, but if Claire was willing...

But extracting Gadreel's Grace had been incredibly painful for Sam, and he couldn't count on that simply being the result of undoing everything the other angel had done while possessing him. The last thing he wanted was to cause Claire any more pain. He had to be _sure_ of what she wanted, that she hadn't been coerced or manipulated into "volunteering."

"What did Hannah offer you?" he asked.

"It's not about what she offered."

"It is for me," he said. "Claire, I'm happy to accept your help, but I don't want you to do it out of obligation, or because she threatened you." Not that he thought Hannah would have resorted to threats, but...

Claire rolled her eyes. "She didn't threaten me, Castiel. And I'm not doing this out of obligation."

"But she _did_ offer you something."

"Well, yeah." She hesitated, then shook her head. "But I would've done it anyway."

He blinked. "But you _accepted_ her offer."

"Yeah, but..." Claire sighed. "Look, you're not my favorite person in the world, not by a long shot, but that doesn't mean I want you to _die,_ when there's something I can do to stop it. Especially not in horrible pain, like Hannah said. It’s like I told you before, you made me who I am today, and I _like_ who I am today, even if I don’t really like how I got here. Plus...look, no offense, but I'm not super comfortable carrying a piece of you around with me for the rest of forever. I mean, not this literally, anyway."

He studied her carefully, trying to gauge whether or not she was lying. He didn't _think_ she was, and if those actually were her reasons, he certainly would accept her help. The problem was... "Why did you take the deal, then?"

"'Cause I needed what she was offering," Claire said. "And I figured she wouldn't do it without thinking she needed to buy my help for you. And I'm okay with her thinking I'm a horrible person or whatever, as long as everyone gets the help they need."

"What was the offer?" Hannah hadn't said--though, to be fair, he hadn’t really given her a chance before storming off.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Naomi told us that...when Meg takes Nick's soul...his body might not...he might die without those spells. Hannah said she'd keep him breathing, at least until we found out if the soul can be returned."

Of course. It would be that, wouldn't it.

"Hannah should never have made her help dependent on yours like that. I'll speak to her."

"No, please, don't,” she said, visibly alarmed. “I need her to not back out."

"Claire..."

He thought, but left unsaid, that it made him more than a little uneasy that Claire--optimistic and largely altruistic as she had somehow managed to remain--had such a devious streak, letting Hannah believe she needed to be bought so the angel would do something she _should_ have been willing to do without incentive.

It was a tangle of mistrust and manipulation and admittedly good intentions, and he didn't like it at _all._

But Claire just shook her head again. "Like I said, Castiel. I'm okay with being a heartless, manipulative bitch if it gives Nick a chance of surviving. But I'd've helped you either way. I just...I need to make _sure_ she helps him."

“She will. With or without you helping me. I will see to it. I promise.”

“It’s not enough, Castiel,” she said quietly. “Promises aren’t enough. Please, let me help you.”

And he was, more or less, trapped. He couldn’t refuse her, not without risking the spell--and Nick. “Very well,” he finally said. “I’ll...contact you when we’re ready.”

“Thank you,” she said, and it hurt a little bit, that she was thanking him for this.

“Of course.” He still wasn’t happy--and, once this was all over, he _would_ have words with Hannah on the subject--but Claire had a point. Everyone benefited from the arrangement.

He just wished it could have been accomplished without so much deception.


	51. Part 5, Chapter 6: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

They'd been putting this meeting off for weeks--Nick had actually asked Claire to set it up right after getting Adam out, but one look at him said going _any_ further on the spell-reversal thing was totally out of the question anytime soon.

But, because he'd asked, she'd gotten in touch with Naomi, to let her know he was willing to hear more once he was well enough again. And, now that Nick looked a little less like death warmed over and basically everyone else was joining in this conspiracy anyway, there wasn't much of a reason to put it off anymore.

She still would've waited longer if she could--and she got the feeling Adam didn't like it, either; he'd been almost insistent on coming along, or as close to it as he ever got--but the sooner they cast the spell, the better. And they were the ones holding everyone else up at this point.

So, here they were, gathered in a motel room right near Chesapeake Bay, where the angel had been waiting for them.

"First, I want to say that I'm pleased you asked to meet with me," Naomi said, smiling slightly at Nick.

He shivered and twisted his fingers. Adam rested a hand lightly on his shoulder for an instant, and that seemed to comfort him.

"No one's made any kind of decision yet," Claire reminded her. "We're having this meeting so we can talk about the risks. That's all."

"Of course," the angel said. She gave a fleeting, almost speculative look at Adam, but didn't comment or ask any questions of her own.

"Can you..." Nick started, "can you just...talk me through it?"

She nodded. "I've secured a location to cast the spell. Once everything else is in place, the demon Meg Masters will remove your soul. Claire said you would be willing to work with her?"

Nick swallowed and Claire tensed, hoping she hadn't misjudged his reaction, but he nodded. "Meg is--Meg is fine."

"Good," Naomi said. "This will be very painful for you, and I can't guarantee it will work, but it gives you your best odds for surviving."

Claire glanced over at Adam. He still looked blank, as always, but he had inched closer to Nick.

He probably didn't like that any more than she did.

"I found someone to help with that," she supplied.

Naomi arched an eyebrow. "Who?"

"An angel. Her name's Hannah." And, unlike the angel, she had actually discussed this with Nick before making the deal. Though, to be fair, the original plan had been to ask Castiel to play life support, but he hadn't objected when she'd told him about the switch.

"I see," Naomi said, then pondered for a moment. "All right. That will be fine."

"Good," Claire said.

"Even with Hannah supporting you, Nick," Naomi continued, "there is no guarantee you'll last. And even if you do, we may not be able to restore your soul. There may not be enough left to return."

He took a deep breath and nodded. "I know." He looked at Adam. "If that happens, let me go, okay?"

_There_ was a flash of something, for just an instant. Adam actually looked upset.

But then it faded again, and he nodded. "Okay."

Claire wasn't at all sure he actually planned to hold to that. She'd have to talk to him later. Or try, anyway.

Not that she really wanted to keep that promise herself, but...

"We can make sure there is a minimum of pain, if it comes to that," Naomi said.

Nick nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

"If all goes well, your soul will be returned to you within a half hour."

"What are the chances of that?" Claire asked. Yes, the angel kept repeating that there were no guarantees, and she _got_ that; she knew that there were far better than even odds she would be burying her uncle soon, but she needed to know how much hope she could safely have.

"I wish I could be optimistic for you," Naomi replied. "But even with all of these safeguards..."

But Nick nodded. "Okay. I understand."

"Do you have any questions?" the angel asked.

"Yeah," Claire said. "How many people know about this? 'Cause, like, Metatron will want to stop you, right? And probably Crowley and the Knight will, too. If only because you're working with Meg and I don't think they like her any more than she likes them. Plus, it's in their interests to keep you out of Heaven, isn't it?" Meg had seemed to think it was, anyway.

"It's true, we won't be able to keep this discreet for very long. But Castiel will handle distracting Metatron, since he's already been positioned to do that," Naomi said. "As for Crowley and Abaddon, of course we'll secure the site against demons. Even if they manage to break through, it won't be fast enough to interfere. And by then, we'll be back to full power again."

Claire wasn't quite sure that was good enough. Too much was riding on the spell actually working, the wards actually holding long enough...especially given how vulnerable Nick would be for this whole thing, Naomi's safeguards were seeming less and less...well, safe.

But before she could push, Nick spoke up.

"What...uh, what's the range on this spell?" he asked.

"Enough," Naomi said. "And _only_ enough."

"How sure are you?"

"Sure enough to try," the angel said. "I can't be completely certain, and I will admit that it's not impossible, but believe me, Nick, if there was _any_ significant chance we'd disturb the Cage--"

"What do you mean _significant?_ " he interrupted.

"The probability is all but nonexistent," she said. "Nick, please--I know you don't trust angels, and you have very good reason not to. But trust at least that the _last_ thing I want is Michael and Lucifer back as active forces in this world."

For a long moment, Nick was silent and Claire held her breath.

But then he shook his head, rapidly, toying with his fingers again. "No. No, I can't--I c-can't do this. It's too risky."

She sighed. "Nick--"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but I can't. My answer is no." He was shaking, and had stood up and started inching towards the door.

He was going to bolt. _Crap._

Claire opened her mouth to try and calm him down, but Naomi spoke first.

"The risk is _minute,_ Nick," she said. “Believe me, if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be--”

_No, no, you're doing this all wrong, don't push him, for God's sake don't_ challenge _his fear, just acknowledge it and try to soothe him what the_ hell, _Naomi--_

"I _can't,_ " he said. His back hit the door and he scrabbled for the handle. "I'm sorry."

He pushed it open and fled.

"Nick--" Naomi called, but he ignored her.

" _Dammit,_ Naomi," Claire said. She started to go after him, but Adam caught her arm.

"Let me," he said quietly.

She hesitated, then nodded. "Make sure he's okay."

He nodded and slipped outside.

"This doesn't work without him, Claire," Naomi said quietly.

Claire turned and glared at the angel. "I _know._ But you're not _listening_ to him, and you're scaring him more."

"I apologize," Naomi said. "Can you persuade him?"

She looked away. "I'm not going to force him to agree, Naomi. You said it was his call."

"I did, and it is. But you know how vital this spell is, and how much we need him for it."

She sighed. "Let Adam calm him down. And when he comes back, don't _push_ him like that. I think he'll come around on his own. _If_ you stop freaking him out."

Naomi nodded. "I hope you're right."

Claire didn’t respond to that, just sat there, fiddling with her cross and keeping an eye out the window for Nick and Adam to come back.


	52. Part 5, Chapter 7: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

It took Nick a few minutes to realize he had no idea where he was, and that terrified him. Usually, when he lost track of the present, he just froze up, but this time, he'd _moved._

He scrambled to run through the usual tests, trying to ignore the little voice in his head asking if he was human enough for the banishing sigil to work. He came up clean--he was as human as he'd been when he zoned out, at least.

Though, of course, that didn't mean he had been the whole time.

He squelched that thought as best he could, trying to focus on figuring out where he'd ended up.

He was probably miles away from where he'd fled Naomi, in a wooded area. For a few minutes after he checked back in, he didn't recognize any landmarks, but the more he looked around, the more he felt like it was _familiar_ somehow. He couldn't place any details, at least not yet, but--

Someone was following him.

Nick froze for a split second, then then scrambled for a place to hide. He was alone, in a familiar but unidentifiable place, and he'd used the last of his holy water testing himself for possession, and he didn't have a stun gun or salt or holy oil or--

He missed a step stumbling backwards, and fell over completely, sliding down a rocky little incline that was maybe twice his height, landing dazed in a shallow creek.

 

_It's early summer, but he's standing on ice, a cheerful creek and nervous birds babbling all around him. He hurts, in a sort of mild, stinging, almost annoying way--like the early stages of a sunburn, or a thousand paper cuts, all over his body._

_"Good. You're awake."_

_That's--wait, his own voice--what?_

_"Look."_

_His head turns without his direction, and--there's a man, hanging by his wrists from a willow tree. He's gagged, and looks more angry than frightened._

_Other than that, he's an ordinary-looking man; short, dusty-brown hair, grey eyes, neither ugly nor especially handsome, average height, average build, somewhere between thirty and fifty._

_"Look closer."_

_He blinks, and there are shadows on the ordinary man's hands, like bloodstains, and shadows around his head that resolve into something like a filmstrip. The ordinary man in the shadows knelt next to--oh God, that's_ Sarah _\--and she was crying and he had a_ knife _and he tries to reach for her, tries to call out to her, tries to help her, but he can't move, can't speak, and--_

_"Easy," his voice says. "I promised you justice, Nick, remember?"_

Yes.

_The shadows around the ordinary man fade._

_"How shall we take it?"_

I want to make him bleed.

_He feels his face smile. "Then you and I will make him bleed."_

_His body moves across the creek, the ice following him, and he's ready for it, they are going to take this ordinary-looking man apart with his bare hands, and he won't be angry anymore, he'll be scared, scared like Sarah was._

_They reach out to grab the ordinary man's face and--_

 

"You're freezing."

Adam's voice was quiet and calm as always. Nick had no way of knowing how long he'd been there, trying to talk him down.

At least that probably answered the question of who had been following him, which was a profound relief.

But he _was_ cold, cold enough that even Adam's hands on his shoulders felt warm, and he ached all over. Whether that was from falling or freezing, he couldn't tell. At least Adam had gotten him out of the water.

And it was probably only Adam being so close that kept him from shutting right down again, once he was conscious enough to feel it.

"Y-yeah," he said.

Adam peeled off his coat and draped it over Nick's shoulders. "You ran off. Claire's very upset."

He flinched and drew Adam's coat closer around himself. "Yeah. Sorry. I was...s-sorry."

He shrugged. "You were scared."

"Yeah."

Adam looked around. "What is this place?"

Nick shuddered and looked anywhere but at the willow tree. "I...buried someone here."

"Who?"

"A murderer," he said flatly. "Or what was left of him, anyway. He...I...it was supposed to be justice."

He considered. "He was your signing bonus."

Nick blinked. He wouldn't have thought to put it in those terms, but... "Yeah."

"Did he suffer?"

"Yes."

"Was it worth it?"

Slowly, Nick shook his head. "It...felt good. But I don't...he killed at least eight other people, is all. And _their_ families didn't...he just...he killed at least ten people. But the others don't...they don't know he's buried here, and he won't hurt anyone else ever again. But it was the only way to...I mean, he's the kind of killer that wouldn't ever...he just...he didn't have a _reason,_ he just...he wanted to hurt people, and he didn't...we weren't...there wasn't any _reason._ " He shivered and curled tighter under the coat. "Maybe it would have been easier if he'd hated us. If he'd had a reason."

"It wouldn't," Adam said quietly. "Trust me."

He looked up at him, but Adam shook his head. "We should focus on you right now. I can tell you later."

"Okay," he said.

"Why run here?" Adam asked. "You don't like it here. It's not a comforting place, and you were scared."

"I...I think I just...I remembered this place." He swallowed and forced himself to finally look at the willow tree, imagining the dismembered corpse buried beneath it. "And if...if Naomi's wrong, if the spell _is_ strong enough to..."

Adam nodded, and sat down next to him. "It's not a big risk."

"Everything is, with him. Them."

He nodded again. "Are you scared of what he'll do, or what you'll do?"

Nick shook his head. "Either. Both. I don't know. I can't...it's too much. I've done...I've let him do enough. With me."

Adam sat quietly for a minute, then said, "There's no guarantee. But Sam’s on board, and he and Naomi both think the risk's small enough that it's worth it, or they wouldn't be doing it. Naomi is playing a deeper game here, and I’m not sure what it is, so I don’t trust her. But she’s not lying, at least not about this part. I mean, she might be wrong, but she’s not lying. And she's smart, and she doesn't want 'em back. And I do trust Sam, and he’s not balking. And I trust you."

That helped, at least a little. Because his instincts about Naomi _weren’t_ totally off, but Adam read angels better than anyone, and Nick trusted him completely. "So you think I should do it?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I think. It's your call. I just think you're more scared than you need to be. At least about this part."

Nick thought about it for a minute, then slowly nodded. "Okay. Okay, you're...you're probably right."

"Do you want to go back now?"

He shivered and shook his head. "Not...not yet. I think I need another minute."

Adam nodded. "Okay. When you're ready. Just don't freeze."

Despite himself, Nick laughed a little.

He actually cracked a smile in response for a second, then went serious again. "I mean it, Nick. Don't die."

Nick looked away. "I'll try."

Adam nodded. "Good."

It took him close to two hours before he finally felt ready to head back. Adam silently offered him a hand when he had trouble standing, and the two of them made their way back to the motel.

He was tired, so tired, when they opened the door again, but he was calm, and set, and almost relieved that he was here. _This is my hill. Or as close as I’m ever going to get._

Claire looked up when Adam pushed the door open, and visibly relaxed to see them there.

“When do we do this?” Nick asked quietly.

“There are certain environmental conditions that need to be met,” Naomi answered. “The next window we have is in ten days.”

He nodded. “Okay, then.”

“So you agree?” the angel asked.

He swallowed, and glanced back at Adam briefly, before nodding again. “Yeah. I’m in.”


	53. Part 5, Chapter 8: Claire

**Claire**

 

Claire snuck out to meet Castiel and Hannah a little bit after midnight. She left a note for the others, so they wouldn't freak, but she _should_ be back before they woke up. And it wasn't like she was going far--she and the angels were meeting in a motel less than two miles away.

Nothing had changed, so far as knew, since she and Adam and Nick had met with Naomi, meaning they were still five days out from casting the spell. And, apparently, according to the call she'd gotten from Hannah earlier, tonight was enough of a lull in their ongoing, base-level conflict with Metatron that they should do this now.

She had no objections to that--might as well get it over with, and having a few days’ buffer between this and the ritual was probably in everyone's best interests. Plus, the angels were apparently close enough that meeting up in secret was actually doable. Mom and Nick and Adam knew what the plan was, of course, but discretion was still important--too many enemies lurking in the shadows. Plus, Mom and Nick would worry--and God only knew what Adam would do--and that would just make her more nervous about the whole thing

Claire got to the motel room before the angels did, checked in, and started setting up wards. She left most of the usual angel warding off, even though doing so made her feel all kinds of exposed and vulnerable. Of course, if she put them up, Castiel and Hannah would be locked out, which would sort of defeat the whole purpose of meeting here. Hopefully, when they showed, _they_ could ward the room against angelic interruptions without affecting themselves.

Still, in the meantime...

Claire fidgeted a little, feeling restless and unfinished. She _never_ sat in an unwarded room, unless it was public or the building itself was warded. And the longer she sat like this, exposed, the more anxious she felt.

_Where the fuck_ are _they?_

By her watch, she was only waiting five minutes, even if it _felt_ like hours, before someone finally tapped on the door. She jumped about a mile, then walked over and checked the peephole--finally, the angels.

She unbolted the door and held it open for them.

"Thank you for this, Claire," Hannah said, with a smile. It wasn't as cold as Claire had expected, given the way they'd negotiated for this, but she didn't _think_ the angel planned to screw her over.

Still, couldn't hurt to give a subtle reminder of their deal. Preferably without spooking Castiel again.

She shrugged one shoulder. "Well, you know my reasons," she said, with a quick glance over at him as a silent reminder that he knew them better.

God, it was still so _weird,_ to look at Daddy and see a completely different person instead.

Castiel just sighed, but didn't object again.

Hannah nodded, and Claire couldn't tell if her response had upset or disappointed the angel. Her attitude and tone, at least, didn't noticeably change when she asked, "Are you ready to begin?"

"Can you beef up the wards first?" she asked. "I didn't want to lock you two out, but it feels like we're pretty exposed here."

"Of course," Hannah said. "I'll take care of it."

Which meant that Claire was putting a _lot_ of trust in the warding of an angelic stranger, but it wasn't like she had a whole lot of choice in the matter.

She sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed again, kicking her legs back and forth idly.

Castiel sat next to her, and asked in a low voice, "Are you absolutely sure you want to go through with this? It's not too late for you to back out."

She smiled a little at him. "Like I said, you know my reasons. And I'm nervous, sure, but I'm still on board a hundred percent."

He nodded, accepting that.

"We should be secure now," Hannah said, joining them.

"Okay." Claire took a deep breath. "So, um, how does this work? What do I have to do?"

"Just lie back and try to relax," Hannah replied. "I'll extract the Grace and give it back to Castiel. It shouldn't take long."

"Good. That's good."

"It will be painful," Castiel warned her. "The only other time I have seen this done, the pain for the vessel was...intense. There were other circumstances feeding that, so it likely won't be quite as bad for you, but you should be prepared."

Well, she could handle pain. If it meant being fully human again, and, more importantly, buying Nick's _life…_

Yeah. Pain was totally worth it.

"I know," she said, then took another breath, kicked off her shoes, and lay back. "Okay. Let's do this."

Hannah nodded and produced what must have been the biggest fucking needle in the world.

She yelped something that might have been a curse, but came out more like an undignified squeaking noise, and sat bolt upright.

The angels paused. "Claire?" Castiel asked. "Is everything all right?"

She took a deep breath, then another, and finally nodded. "Y-yeah. Yes. It's good, it's all--I-I don't like n-needles, sorry." _Remember why you're here. Get the Grace out, save Nick._ It was just a needle, she could handle a little (HUGE) needle, right?

"Are you sure?"

She nodded, took another deep breath, and lay back again, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Try to relax," Hannah said, somewhere above her.

_Easy for_ you _to say, you're not about to get stuck with a needle the size of a_ tree!

"Just--just stop _talking_ and do it already," she said instead, clinging to the blankets and breathing as deep as she could manage.

Why'd it have to be a fucking _needle?_

She felt it make contact with the side of her neck, and even the most optimistic person in the world couldn't call _that_ a pinch.

And that was just the beginning.

Hannah's hand pressed down on her forehead, holding her still, and she _thought_ she screamed, as white-hot barbs of _something_ darted all through her body, like tiny hounds chasing after a fox, the teeny tiny little Castiel fox still buried deep within her.

There was a sense of _impact_ at the core of her soul, and maybe she screamed again, but she couldn't hear it over the rushing noise of the white-hot wires running up her veins, chasing themselves all the way up to the needle in her throat, and she was _drowning._ She couldn't breathe, could only choke on it, the pain and the light and the darts and she was drowning in it, in that white-hot light, in that trace of Castiel.

 

_"I can save them," the light had whispered in her ear, concealing itself from outside observation in the curtain of her hair. "I can save them, but you have to let me in."_

_"Yes," she had whispered back. "Save them, please."_

_An infinity of light had enveloped her before she could even finish forming her reply. The seconds had dripped by, liquid and eternal, as the light, as Castiel, had poured out of her hands and eyes, had burned through them all, grimly focused on the task at hand._

_This,_ this _had been rightness, and glory, and light and beauty, a fragment of a fragment of the wonder of Heaven, and Claire, awed beyond all comprehension, had curled into a tiny speck behind the eyes she had loaned to the angel, caught up completely in the infinity of it all._

_And then they had come to rest, next to the bleeding body of her father, her father who had served the angel so well for so long, and she had thought she could see him pleading, and she had wanted to say, "Save him, Castiel, Castiel, you promised me you'd save him."_

_But the angel had spoken, had spoken of_ Heaven, _and--she had wanted to cry, had wanted to beg for her father's life, and then--_

_She had breathed out heat and light and then she had been alone behind her eyes again. She had looked up at Daddy, and the blood had been gone, and he had been Castiel again instead._

_Claire had slumped a little bit inside herself, feeling very cold and very finite, weary and empty and alone._

_She had watched Castiel walk away with her father a second time, and she had known that this one would be forever, and she had found herself, still, completely unable to cry._

 

Claire felt warm hands, familiar hands, resting on her forehead and throat, and she sat up carefully. Castiel's hands fell away, and he watched her carefully, his eyes swimming with something she couldn't quite identify.

"Are you all right?" he asked her softly.

There was blood on her collar and salt on her cheeks, and she felt exactly the same as before.

She nodded, and smiled a little at him. "And you? You're good now?"

He nodded and smiled back. "Hannah already put the needle away. It's safe to look."

Claire flushed and laughed a little, nervously. "Oh, good. Uh. Sorry about that."

"Don't be," he said.

She carefully climbed up off the bed and reclaimed her shoes, and her legs didn't wobble one bit. "I should get home," she said. "I guess I'll see you guys when Naomi's ready?"

Castiel turned solemn, and nodded.

"We'll be there," Hannah promised. "Both of us. Thank you, Claire, for everything."

Claire nodded once, then headed home.

She snuck back in just as dawn was breaking, retrieved her note, and fell into bed without waking Mom, or Adam, or Nick.

She still felt--well, mostly the same, but at the same time different; curiously heavier and lighter all at once. But the real change was that, as she drifted off to sleep, warm and whole, solid and _herself,_ she felt finally, totally, _free._


	54. Part 5, Chapter 9: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

They were assembling their entire party in the run-down, derelict old house that Naomi had selected and fortified for the spell. It was an old Victorian, crawling with vines, and the eyes of the other people who passed seemed to just slide past without even seeing it.

"Creepy," Dean muttered.

"Naomi set it up," Sam pointed out.

"True," he said, locking the car as Cas and Gadreel pulled up and parked behind them.

Sam tensed a little, then let it go with a long, slow breath. They were working with Gadreel because they had to, because they needed information from deep in Metatron's camp. And Cas trusted his defection, and Sam trusted Cas, so here they were.

Maybe, with time, working with him wouldn't be any harder than working with Meg. Or maybe one or both of them would die and he could figure out how to feel about the whole thing without the constant pressure of knowing the angel was still out there making it harder. Or it wouldn't be an issue anymore. Or...

Either way, whatever he did later, he had to put it aside for now. As personal as things with Gadreel were, Metatron was the bigger problem. Sam would have to find a way to prioritize, and compartmentalize. He'd done it before. He could manage.

Didn't mean he _liked_ it, or was at all comfortable with it, but he could handle it. For now.

The two angels piled out of the car, Gadreel hanging back behind Cas, on high alert. He resembled nothing more than a highly trained guard dog who had been kicked a few too many times. He had the personality to match, too, from what Sam remembered--not malicious, exactly, but angry and bitter and defensive, always feeling cornered and desperate, and _extremely_ dangerous because of it.

He shook his head to clear it of those ghosts. _Later. Focus on the job._

Cas retrieved a cooler from the backseat of his car, then approached them.

"Is everyone else here?" Dean asked.

"I can't see inside the house," Cas said. "Naomi's wards are solid. But there is another car down the block that I believe belongs to Meg. Claire and Nick are too careful about warding themselves to be sure about them."

"And Hannah?" Cas had read Hannah in a while ago, but she hadn't come to the bunker with him and Gadreel, something about wrapping up a few things with the rest of Cas’ army.

He shook his head. "Unless she's inside, not yet."

"Guess we'll find out, then," Sam said, pushing ahead to lead the way inside and put as much distance between himself and Gadreel as possible.

The doorknob tingled under his hand, buzzing with the power Naomi had poured into her wards. They didn't lash out at him, though. However she'd set them up, they seemed to _recognize_ him.

Dean was right. The wards _were_ creepy. But unless they wanted to invite Naomi--and Meg--into the bunker, they had to depend on someone else's wards, and at least the angel clearly knew what she was doing. And the problem with inviting them in was that, once that was done, they could come _back,_ which neither he nor Dean wanted to risk. However friendly they all were for the moment. Maybe Meg, on reflection--she _had_ been friendly pretty consistently for the past few years; the risk with her was more that she could do another one-eighty somewhere down the line--but _not_ Naomi. The angel hadn’t earned even that half-consideration yet.

But if not for them--since Gadreel was, where the bunker was concerned, a lost cause--they probably would've based out of there. Safer for all the humans involved, at least. And they definitely planned on bringing Adam and Claire and Nick--maybe Hannah, _maybe_ Meg--there after.

If they all survived.

He pushed through the door, feeling a staticky tingle all over as he crossed the threshold. He swore under his breath and ran a hand through his hair, quickly, before Dean could make fun of the way it was now flying in all directions.

There was a brief scuffle in the doorway behind him, when Gadreel apparently got stuck in it. Sam couldn't quite suppress a savage sort of joy at seeing the angel trapped and struggling.

Cas sighed. "Naomi, he's with me."

The other angel appeared at the top of the stairs, and commanded the door's wards to drop Gadreel with a wave of her hand. "You should have told me, Castiel. I would have reset the protections to recognize him."

"It was a sudden change in plans," Dean said shortly, rather than letting Cas answer for himself. "Who else is here?"

Naomi let that response pass without further comment, and allowed him to change the subject. "Meg is upstairs. I heard from Claire a few minutes ago, they're on their way."

"Good," Dean said.

They were halfway up the stairs to join Naomi and Meg when the door opened again.

Claire and Adam had Nick sort of sandwiched between them, with the blue-haired girl leading. Adam had an angel blade shoved through his belt; Claire of course was armed with her holy taser, and had her backpack slung over one shoulder, probably stocked with other supplies. Neither of them looked happy. Though, to be fair, Adam looked as blank as always, rather than actively unhappy, even if Claire looked grim. Nick...Nick seemed no more tense than usual, and Sam finally felt that prickly feeling he usually got when they were close--which actually should've started a lot sooner. Naomi's wards must have muffled it.

"Hey, guys," Claire said.

"Let's keep moving, shall we?" Naomi cut in before they could respond. "The stairs are getting crowded."

She had a point, and Sam was the one blocking the way.

"Sorry," he said, then mounted the rest of the stairs two at a time.

Naomi led them along a short hallway to what was probably designed to be the master bedroom. At the moment, it was bare of furniture other than a worn, soft-looking couch in the corner furthest from the door. Most of the floor was taken up by an elaborate ritual circle, full of stylized Enochian script that wove in and out and twisted around on itself often enough to make his head spin.

Meg was sprawled on the couch, kicking one of the arms idly and reading a Playboy. She looked up when they came in and grinned a little. "Hey, boys, Clarence. Welcome to the party."

"Meg," Sam said, but before he--or one of the others--could say anything else, she caught sight of Gadreel behind them.

Her eyes went black and her smile turned slightly feral as she got up off the couch. "Oh, look. It's Not Lucifer."

Gadreel stiffened and glared back at her. "Do not call me that."

Meg smiled sweetly at him. "Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

"The circumstances under which I earned that name were _not_ ideal," the angel snapped.

Well, _that_ was one hell of an understatement, if Sam was following the conversation right. It did sort of explain why Meg had been so pissed at them, though. He could almost be grateful to her for sticking up for him, if he didn't see the real reason for it.

_Don't forget what she is. What_ any _of them are,_ he reminded himself.

"Well, maybe you should've thought of that before going where you had no fucking _business_ being," she shot back.

Gadreel glowered at her. "When our mission is complete, demon, I will take great pleasure in smiting you."

She flipped him the bird. "Bring it, flyboy."

The angel took a step forward, and the room crackled with static. But before things could escalate further, Cas got between them.

"Gadreel. Meg," he said, looking at each of them in turn. "Both of you. _Behave._ "

Gadreel looked away and backed down.

Meg shrugged. "Well, Clarence, since you asked so nice." Her eyes returned to normal and she flopped back on the couch, picking up her magazine and studiously ignoring Gadreel. The whole room noticeably relaxed, and Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught Nick watching Gadreel with an opaque, almost thoughtful expression; an expression that something in Sam's gut told him meant the other vessel was _not_ pleased.

The fact that he actually went over to Gadreel, close enough to talk quietly and be heard, just confirmed it--Nick was _pissed,_ enough to at least temporarily override his ordinary blind terror of angels.

"I hope," he said softly, "that you're treating Karl better than you treated Sam."

Gadreel tensed and looked away, carefully avoiding the eyes of any and all humans present.

Nick paled a little and backed off, shaking. It looked like, now that the actual moment of confrontation had passed, the anger and adrenaline had died, leaving him with nothing but his terror.

Without changing expression, Adam rested a hand on Nick's shoulder, and Claire murmured something Sam couldn't quite catch. Nick took a deep breath, nodded shakily, and toyed with his imaginary ring.

It might have been Sam's imagination, but he thought that Nick even leaned into Adam, just a little.

"If we've all finished posturing," Naomi said dryly, "we do have some last-minute details to iron out."

Claire and Meg rolled their eyes practically in unison, which was actually almost funny.

"We're good," Dean answered for their part.

"Aren't we waiting for Hannah?" Adam asked, his eyes flickering over to Nick.

"Her role is comparatively simple and well-defined--not easy, but uncomplicated," she answered. "We can leave it for last."

Adam blinked, and nodded once before subsiding and sitting on the floor with Claire and Nick.

"So. The primary difficulty we have here is detection," Naomi said, settling herself rather primly on the edge of the couch next to Meg. "My wards are solid, as I'm sure you all noticed, but Metatron was the Scribe. If he knows where to look..."

Yeah. Metatron had erased wards before. Not of Naomi's caliber, probably--though, granted, Sam hadn't actually _seen_ Crowley's wards, so they might well have been--and that was _before…_

Cas, aloud, brought up that very point. "This aside from the fact that he's far more powerful than he should be."

She nodded, and looked over at Gadreel, who was apparently trying to blend in with the wallpaper. "Any insights you'd care to share with us?"

He blinked, then glanced over at Cas before answering. "He still has the angel tablet. Most likely, he has found a way to tap into its power. He keeps it in his office."

"In Heaven?"

He nodded.

"So," Naomi said. "We need to lure him away from there, and keep him busy. I would also suggest that we send someone in behind his back to--"

Soft chimes filled the air, interrupting her. Downstairs, the front door opened and closed, followed by footsteps running up the stairs.

"I apologize for being late," Hannah said, "but the streets around here are very--"

Abruptly, she stopped, her focus narrowing onto Gadreel.

"What," she said, "is _he_ doing here?"

Cas held out a hand in what was clearly intended to be a placating gesture. "I brought him in."

She stared at him. "I cannot _believe_ you."

He frowned. "Hannah, if you'll let me explain--"

She just shook her head again, turned on her heel, and stalked off back down the stairs.

"No!" Claire yelped, launching to her feet.

"Go," Naomi said. "Bring her back. We can handle things without you for a while."

She nodded frantically and darted after the angel.


	55. Part 5, Chapter 10: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

Claire pelted down the stairs and caught the angel just as she was walking out the front door. "Wait! You can't leave!"

"Watch me," Hannah snapped, continuing on to her car.

Claire dodged around her and slammed the car door shut, blocking it with her body. "We had a deal, Hannah."

"I'm sorry, but the situation has changed."

"Bullshit," she snapped. Her heart was pounding in her throat. If Hannah walked, Nick would _die._ Castiel and Gadreel would probably end up storming Heaven to get the tablet or whatever, or else they’d be helping Sam and Dean keet Metatron busy, and Naomi would have her hands full casting the damn spell, and it was too late to find and bribe or bully another angel into working with them. "I held up my end. You _owe_ me."

Hannah glowered at her, but didn't try to shove her aside or otherwise attack her physically. "You don't understand what Castiel has done."

"I don't _care_ what he did. You made your bargain with _me._ Just because you don't like what he did with what I gave you doesn't mean you can screw me over like this. I acted in good faith, and I gave you _everything_ you asked!" She took a deep, shaky breath and clenched her fists tight, trying not to cry. "You don't get to screw me 'cause Castiel screwed you. I don't deserve that. And Nick _really_ doesn't deserve that. You don't _get_ to lash out at us out of some kind of freaking buyer's remorse!"

Hannah stood there quietly for a beat, then asked, "Are you done?"

"Are you staying?"

The angel sighed. "I don't expect you to understand."

She scoffed and folded her arms, looking her square in the eye. "Try me." _Bitch,_ she added silently.

"It's...he's working with _Gadreel_ now. Naomi I understood, no matter how much I despise her, and even the demon makes sense, but him..."

"So, working with a demon is fine with the right excuse, but this _one_ angel is a dealbreaker?"

"He's Metatron's chief _assassin,_ Claire," Hannah said. "You have no _idea_ how many angels he's murdered."

"Desperate times," she said, fighting to keep her voice even. "Besides, Castiel killed a crapload of angels, too, after he beat Raphael. You don't seem to have a problem with that."

She shook her head. "It's not the same."

"Even if it isn't, it still doesn't matter," Claire said. _Focus,_ she reminded herself. _I shouldn't be arguing the finer points of her stupidity, because it's not about Castiel anymore._ "This isn't about either of them. It's about you and me and Nick."

"It _is_ still about them, because it's about supporting Castiel's plans. And between the people he's allied himself with and the suicide bombers--"

"The what?"

"Castiel is sending angels--good, loyal angels--to blow themselves up and take out Metatron's supporters."

Claire stared at her for a long moment, completely thrown. "No, he's not."

"We have video of what they do," Hannah said sharply. "I assure you, he _is._ "

She shook her head. "No, he's not. The video is wrong. Trust me, I know him sort of intimately--"

"You're only human," the angel interrupted. "You couldn't _possibly--_ "

"Stop patronizing me," Claire cut her off. "You have _no idea_ how much your vessels know, do you. It's all there, if you know where to look. And I freaking know where to look. And Castiel? _Would not do that._ I mean, sure, he'll kill an assload of people to make a point, but not like that. He wouldn't turn another person into a weapon, he'd do his own damn dirty work."

"Even if what you say is true," she said quietly, after a moment's quiet thought, "you knew Castiel seven years ago. And these have not been quiet years for him. What he may or may not have done then doesn't determine what he may or may not do now."

She shook her head. "You're wrong. I can't explain how I know it, but I do. And what Castiel may or may not be doing _doesn't matter,_ anyway. We had a deal. I held up my end. Now it's your turn."

Hannah looked away.

"Does Nick deserved to die because _Castiel_ crossed a line?"

She turned back and glared at Claire. "Of course not."

"Then _screw_ Castiel. This is about you, and me, and Nick. You can deal with your internal problems another way. Not by taking it out on us. We had a _deal._ " She took a deep breath.

Hannah still looked unconvinced.

Time to break out the low blow.

"I mean, even _demons_ keep their deals."

Hannah glared at her. "Fine. I'll stay."

Claire’s knees went weak with relief, and she was deliriously proud of herself that she didn’t let it show. “Good,” she said, and turned around on her heel and went back into the house.

Hannah, silent and obviously still angry, followed her up the stairs.


	56. Part 5, Chapter 11: Sam

 

**Sam**

 

"As I was saying," Naomi went on, after Claire closed the door, as if nothing had gone wrong. "If we can sneak someone into Heaven while Metatron is--"

"You do realize," Adam interrupted quietly, "that if Hannah doesn't come back, we're out, too."

"Adam--" Nick started, then the two of them locked eyes for a moment.

The older vessel broke first, looking down at his hands and twisting his fingers slowly.

Naomi surveyed them, unblinking, for a long moment, then said, "I have every confidence in Claire, Adam."

Adam, as always, barely reacted. He blinked once, nothing else crossing his face, whether he believed her or not.

Cas, on the other hand, did _not_ look happy, shifting his grip on the cooler. He started to say something, then stopped, letting out a slow, calming breath instead.

Sam met Dean's eyes briefly, and found his own frustration mirrored there.

"Fucking angel politics," Meg muttered into her magazine from her corner of the couch, echoing his thoughts.

"Now. May I continue without further interruption?"

Adam blinked again, and no one else said anything.

"Thank you," she said. "So. We lure Metatron out of Heaven, and send someone in to raid his office and disrupt his connection to the tablet. One or the other should keep his eyes off of our work here, let alone both."

"It seems like a solid plan," Cas said. "How do we draw him out?"

"We may not have to," Gadreel interjected quietly.

"You know his plans?" Naomi asked.

Gadreel nodded. "To an extent, though he has not shared many of the details with me. I do know that he is planning to make a play for the allegiance of the human world," he said.

"Of course he is," Cas muttered.

"Do you know where he'll make his move?" she pressed.

"Muncie," he answered. "Muncie, Indiana."

The room held its breath for a moment, as if that town meant something to the assembled group. And Sam had a feeling it actually did--or it should--but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

At least, not until Naomi reacted and broke the silence.

"Muncie," she said. "Of course. He _would_ draw credibility from that symbol."

"He's done it before," Cas agreed.

_...oh._ Put like that, reminded like that, Muncie made total sense.

On that note, the air chimed again--two complimenting tones together--and Hannah and Claire came back up the stairs to rejoin them.

"We all good?" Sam asked.

"I'm staying," Hannah said coolly, finding a space to settle without looking at Cas or Gadreel.

Claire nodded, and gave Sam a slightly shaky smile before rejoining Nick and Adam on the floor. She took Nick's hand and squeezed it briefly before dropping it again.

"Now that that's settled," Naomi said, once again attempting to keep everyone on target. Not an easy task, with all the animosity and mistrust and fear lurking under the surface. It was like herding cats. Vicious, angry, _feral_ cats. Sam did _not_ envy her running this meeting.

"You have our undivided attention," Meg said, putting her magazine away and sitting up straight with her chin on her hands, a parody of an overly-attentive high schooler.

Sitting on the floor, Claire stifled giggles. Dean just rolled his eyes.

Naomi sighed faintly, and Sam could practically see her counting to ten in her head. "Gadreel, do you know when exactly Metatron will be heading for Indiana?"

He shook his head. "Nor do I know exactly what he has planned. But I do not believe he will be subtle when he arrives."

"Me and Sam can head that way, keep him busy on the ground," Dean said.

Sam nodded.

Cas, however, shook his head. "While he's drawing on the tablet, he's too powerful. He'll kill you both."

"All we have to do is stall him a while. We can do that much first," Sam said, without denying it--how could he?

"Yeah," Dean said. "It won't be pretty, but that douche does like to hear himself talk."

Cas still didn't look convinced, but Naomi was nodding. "If all goes well, you won't have to stall him long. Once we finish the spell, Hannah or I should be able to aid or extract you." She glanced over at Claire and Adam. "Will either of you go with them, or do you plan to stay here?"

"They should stay," Dean said immediately, just as Claire shook her head.

"The three of you will be...busy," she said quietly. "Adam and me, we'll keep watch, make sure no one interrupts."

Rear-guard. Right. Someone had to do it, and it was probably the safest place for the two of them.

Adam blinked, and Naomi nodded, then turned to Cas and Gadreel. "That leaves you two to handle the tablet. Gadreel, does anyone know you're with us now? Will they still let you through the door?"

He nodded, then hesitated. "I think that I can get myself through, but it will not be easy with Castiel."

"I'll think of something," the other angel assured him.

Gadreel nodded and subsided again.

"So, for the rest of us," Naomi said. "Meg, how long will it take you to extract the soul?"

Sam shot a quick look over at Nick, but the older man didn't flinch. He just toyed with his fingers, still wedged between Claire and Adam.

Meg tilted her head and thought for a minute before answering. "Might take a couple minutes. Probably five at the most."

_Now_ Nick drew in a soft breath, and let it out slow.

Naomi just nodded. "Good. Hannah, you'll be ready?"

"Yes."

"And, Castiel, you brought the head?"

" _Head?_ " Claire blurted.

Cas nodded, and handed Naomi his cooler. "Head of a nephil."

Sam was very, very glad she didn't open it to investigate. If the girl Cas had killed a year ago really _had_ been the only nephil on Earth...he didn't have a problem with bodiless heads, for the most part--dealt with them often enough that he was pretty thoroughly desensitized--but one that had been decomposing for a year would _not_ be a pleasant sight. Or smell.

"And we've got the Spear of Destiny," Dean supplied before Naomi could ask, pulling it out of his bag.

She accepted it, still in the box the Men of Letters had made for it, and set it next to the cooler. "Claire, Adam, you can position yourself as you please. Any questions?"

For a beat, everyone was silent.

"Then, my friends," she said, "I think we're ready. We'll make our move when Metatron comes to Earth."


	57. Part 5, Chapter 12: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

They were gearing up to head out--Gadreel had said to look for Metatron in Muncie, Indiana, before he and Cas had gone to gatecrash Heaven. Dean had watched them go, hoping for the best and looking forward to when they got back and this was over, so he could finally gank the son of a bitch who had lied to him, killed his friend, and nearly ruined his relationship with his brother.

But, priorities. Dean understood them, even if he didn't like caving to them in this case. Besides, if Sam could stand working with Gadreel until they'd fixed Heaven and taken Metatron down, Dean could put his own justice on hold for that long.

So, for now, they were heading to Muncie on Gadreel's intel, to keep Metatron busy once he showed up. Which was fine--Dean had no real objections to playing bait, especially since he couldn't exactly help with either of the other tasks in play. No way he and Sam were getting up to Heaven without dying, and Naomi had all the support she needed for her end of things, between Hannah, Meg, Claire, and Adam.

Of course, he wasn't entirely sure why Metatron had chosen Muncie, and that bothered him in the back of his mind a little bit, because Metatron did _nothing_ by accident or coincidence. On top of that, Cas and Naomi hadn’t exactly seemed surprised when Gadreel mentioned the place. Something about symbolic value--maybe it meant something to angels that he couldn't see. But he didn’t like not knowing--it made this whole thing a lot more dangerous.

"Dean?"

He turned, surprised out of his thoughts by Nick's voice. The ex-vessel had approached him alone, without either of his usual shadows--more surprising. He was twisting his fingers nervously again, but otherwise still.

"Hey," he said, dropping his bag back into the trunk. "Looking for Sam?" He figured the two of them might have some last minute secrets or whatever to share. And, yeah, he didn't like being on the outside of something his brother was involved in, but there _was_ something to be said for 'I've been there, too.'

But, surprisingly, Nick shook his head. "No, I...uh, I actually wanted to talk to you. Privately?"

Dean blinked. Well, _that_ was unexpected. He and Nick hadn't talked privately since...well, _ever._ Nick always went to Sam, and Dean would talk with Claire or Adam, or they would meet as a group. And that had worked for them every time they'd met, and, from what he understood, it had as much to do with Nick's tendency to jump at shadows as anything else. So if Nick was breaking pattern now...

"Sure," he said. "What's up?"

Nick took a deep breath. "I have a favor to ask you. And...please, whether or not you agree, please don't tell any of the others what I asked, okay?"

Dean eyed him for a long moment. "What kind of favor are we talking about?"

He hesitated, then took another breath and said, "I'm worried about a...there's something I'm...when Metatron cast the first spell, last year, Castiel fell. He became human. Right?"

"Yeah."

"Naomi is trying to mirror that spell, as exactly as she can," he said. "What if...what if _that_ part gets mirrored, too? What if I..."

"Become an angel?" he finished for him.

Nick nodded.

Dean considered for a minute. "I gotta say, man, I don't think that's gonna happen." Sure, it made logical sense, sort of, but he'd never heard of a human becoming an angel before. And Cas wasn't the first angel to become human. Anna had even done it by _choice._ Hell, Cas himself had come pretty damn close back during the Apocalypse.

But a human becoming an angel? That, as far as he knew, had never happened.

Which, to be fair, didn't _actually_ make it impossible, just really freaking unlikely.

Nick twisted his fingers again. "I'm not...I know it's never happened before, and there's no _real_ reason to think it will, except symmetry. I know I'm probably just being paranoid, I just...what if?"

He nodded. "All right, fair enough. What if?" Couldn't hurt to consider all possibilities, however unlikely.

He visibly steeled himself before speaking again. "If I...if I ascend, I want you to kill me."

Dean blinked. He sure as hell hadn't expected _that._ "Why me?" he asked. Not _why,_ because he totally understood _that_ part. But...honestly, he was probably the _last_ person Nick should be coming to for that kind of favor.

Nick looked away. "Claire would get upset, maybe even enough to call this whole thing off. And I _need_ to do this. As for Adam...he'll never do it. He'll never kill me, no matter how much I beg. And he'll probably tell Claire. And Sam..." He sighed faintly, and resumed toying with his fingers. "Sam carries enough guilt for things that happened to me. More than enough. I'm not gonna add to that unless I have to."

And obviously, there was no way in hell Nick would go to one of the angels or Meg. Dean might not know him that well, but he knew that much for sure.

"And I don't..." He swallowed. "I don't want to...I don't want to be an angel again. _Ever_ again. I did enough damage the first time. But the last time...the last time it came down to an angel or a bullet, I made the wrong call. And I don't trust myself to make the right one this time."

Okay, _that_ was an uncomfortable truth he had never really wanted to know. Lucifer or a bullet...Jesus _fuck._

"Okay," he said. "If this happens, and Metatron doesn't kill me...okay. I'll do it. How do you want this to work?"

"If I ascend, I'm going to run," Nick said flatly. "I don't know what Naomi and the other angels--or even Meg--would do with me, and I don't plan on sticking around to find out."

"Good plan," he said. "How do I find you?"

Nick pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. "I'll be at this address. Get there as soon as you can."

He nodded and unfolded the paper to scan it. It was an address in Pike Creek, Delaware. And Dean had seen enough addresses in this format to recognize it.

"A cemetery?" he asked.

Nick looked down at his hands and refused to say anything else.

"Fine. Okay, so, if we both survive and you get your wings..."

"We meet at that grave and you end me," Nick finished quietly.

Dean held out a hand to shake on it. The older man hesitated for a second, then reached back and clasped it. His hand was fever-hot, the scars rough and sensitive. They let go after a second, and Nick released a slow breath.

"Thank you," he said.

"Any time," he replied, and watched Nick re-enter the house, fiddling with the paper with the grave plot address written on it. Whatever happened with Nick's hypothetical ascension, if he survived the decoy mission, Dean was going to find out who the hell was buried there.


	58. Part 5, Chapter 13: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Gadreel were finally off. Naomi and Meg were finalizing the outer wards, and Adam had gone with Claire to explore the building, trying to decide where they should position themselves. Nick had been left alone, in the room Naomi had begun to set up for the ritual.

He perched on the edge of the couch the angels had brought in for him, toying with his fingers and trying not to think too much.

It wasn't that he was afraid. Or, at least, not more than usual. Definitely not enough to balk again. He'd gotten past _that_ fear, at least. He just...he didn't like being alone. Especially not when he was about to do something so...intense. Intense was a good word.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to still his hands and relax. _I wish Adam hadn't left…_

"Nick? Are you all right?"

He jumped. The fourth angel--Hannah, that was her name--the one whose help Claire had bargained for.

She seemed open, even honest, and genuinely concerned. She was even courteously keeping her distance, staying in the doorway on the opposite side of the ritual circle painted on the floor.

"I...fine," he said. "Just...I'm fine."

He wished it wasn't her. If it couldn't be Adam or Claire or even Meg, if it _had_ to be one of the angels...

Hannah set him on edge more than the others, despite the fact--or maybe because of it--that he’d agreed to literally put his life in her hands. She wasn't the most potentially harmful or malicious, even given what she’d be doing with him--that was Naomi--but Claire trusted Naomi, and he followed her lead there, and with Castiel.

Even Gadreel he at least _understood,_ on some level. And, for all he'd done to Sam, there was what Karl had felt about him. And even Sam was willing to work with him, despite everything. The angel was defensive, and desperate, and driven completely by his quest for redemption.

Nick had sort of made his peace with his own basically nonexistent chances for redemption, but he understood where Gadreel was coming from. He understood why Karl had missed him, why Sam was willing to work with him. He _understood._

But Hannah?

The only person vouching for her was another angel. And Claire had had to bribe her into helping and then shame her into staying.

He didn't want to be _alone,_ no, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be alone with _her,_ either.

"I can see that I make you uncomfortable," she said.

He flinched and looked away.

"Is there anything I can do to ease that?"

He blinked, surprised. "Why do you care?" he blurted, then flinched again. She was going to get upset, and then...

He shivered, shrinking back a little towards the wall. "I'm sorry. I--I didn't mean..."

She sighed softly. "You make me sad," she said. "I'm aware of what you're risking for us, after everything you've been through already, and you always seem so...sad. And afraid."

He twisted his fingers and didn't answer. He did _not_ want to be on _any_ angel’s personal radar that way, and especially not one who seemed a little more volatile than most.

"But even if I wasn't saddened, I did promise Claire that I would hold you together. Isn't this a part of that?"

Weirdly enough, that actually helped, at least a little. It was something he could understand, and something blessedly impersonal.

"Oh," he said.

"Can I help?" she asked again.

He hesitated. "...what's your vessel's name?"

The angel drew in a soft breath, and he heard her sit down on the floor. It may have been--probably was--a rude, intrusive question, but...

He could handle Castiel and Gadreel largely because their ex-vessels could. And as for Naomi...Naomi was different. Naomi's motives were plain, and...he knew where he stood with her. He knew exactly what kind of threat she was. Besides, Adam was sure that, whatever Naomi’s deeper game was, she didn’t want to harm any of them, and he trusted Adam.

He didn't quite have that for Hannah. And, while he couldn't speak to her vessel directly, but maybe knowing just a little bit about her would help.

"Caroline," Hannah said quietly. "Her name is Caroline."

Nick nodded. "Is she...does she have any family? Is anyone looking for her?"

"Her husband is, I think. And she has two brothers, but they consented, too," she answered. "One of them...my brother was killed by Malachi, so hers is dead as well. I haven't heard from the other in months."

"Oh." He was quiet for a moment, tracing one of his scars and shivering a little. "Is she...is she in pain?"

"She doesn’t seem to be," the angel said slowly. "And I do try to shield her from distress."

An honest answer, at least. And the other things he wanted--almost needed--to ask were...he couldn't ask them. It wasn't fair to Caroline. Things like what Hannah had promised, and if she'd followed through.

"I'll do my best to shield you, too," she said.

"I know you will."

He could feel her watching him, and shifted a little uncomfortably.

"Are you...do you not want me to?" she asked. She seemed genuinely upset.

"Claire wouldn't have asked you to do it without asking me first."

"That isn't an answer."

"I promised Claire and Adam I'd try to live," he said.

"So?"

"So, this is me trying."

It wasn't that he wanted to die. Not anymore. Especially now that he had Adam and Claire and Amelia and...he just...even apart from the fact that he did not like the idea of putting his life in another angel’s hands...it was going to _hurt,_ and at least if he _did_ die here, he'd die doing something _right,_ something that he _chose._ He'd die as the result of a good decision that only he could make. Living to die another day couldn't promise him that.

He didn't want to die, no. But he couldn't exactly say he would object if he did.

"All right," Hannah said, then paused. "...did I help? Is this helping?"

He nodded. "Actually...actually, yeah." It had steadied him, at least; made the prospect of trusting her a little less impossibly terrifying.

"Good," she said.

At that, they fell silent for a few minutes, until Adam and Claire rejoined them, followed close by Naomi and Meg.

“You can have a few minutes, but then we need to begin,” Naomi said.

A chance to say goodbye. “Okay,” he said.

Hannah stood up and followed the demon and the other angel outside, leaving him alone with Adam and Claire.

For a moment, none of them said anything, then Adam took a breath and broke the silence. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel right now.”

Claire blinked, then smiled a little. “I’m not sure any of us do, Adam.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I just...uh,” Nick started. “I just...whatever...whatever happens now--” _If I ascend, I want you to kill me_ “--I want you to know that...that I…” _This is me trying._

Some things were just too much for words.

Claire crossed the room in two steps and hugged him close, for just a second--enough to make him feel held without making him feel trapped.

“We’ll see you after,” Adam said softly.

“Yeah,” she said, and he just nodded, and hoped Dean was right, and Hannah would come through, and…

Naomi tapped on the door once then opened it. “Metatron has landed,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s time.”

He nodded again, and Claire went back to Adam, and--

Some things were too much for words. He just hoped that, if this ended badly, the few he’d found would be enough.


	59. Part 6, Chapter 1: Meg

 

**Meg**

 

The angels shooed Claire and Adam out of the room, then Naomi added one final layer of wards and totally sealed them rest of them in.

Beside her, Meg felt Nick shiver, and a part of her didn't blame him. This was some fucking heavy-duty Heaven power, and it didn't like her at _all._ And, yeah, sure, Naomi had built the wards to include her, but she was still a fucking demon trapped in a fucking badass angelic ring of protection. It _sucked,_ and it was actually kind of painful.

_Remember why you're here,_ she told herself. Keeping her allies, preventing fucking Crowley from gaining any more advantages, winning a favor from the celestial queen bitch of creepy spies.

Yeah. Okay. She was good now.

She and the human were on the couch, and Hannah took a position on the other arm, closer to Nick than Meg. He didn't flinch away from either of them, which was probably a good thing.

Naomi took her own position in the center of the circle, summoning Castiel's cooler with a rippling shiver of her power. She opened it and extracted the rotting nephil head before casting the cooler aside.

_Now_ Nick flinched.

The head _was_ pretty damn gruesome, and Meg knew gruesome. For some reason, bodies were always grossest at around this point in their decay. Dead and buried long enough to change their shape and smell fucking _awful,_ but not long enough to be skulls and bones.

Something static in the air shifted, and Naomi blinked.

"Is something wrong?" Hannah asked.

"The outermost wards are wavering," Naomi said. "Claire and Adam will handle it."

Beside Meg, Nick tensed further, playing with his fingers until it looked like he might actually break the damn things.

Meg hadn't picked up on the intruder's approach--fuck, Naomi's wards were almost _too_ good. Then again, Hannah hadn't, either, so _maybe_ it wasn't personal, or a fucking trap, but Meg was still uneasy.

And, much as she liked Claire, talented as the kid was, and for all the fucking weird vibes Adam and his blade gave off, against someone badass enough to rattle fucking _Naomi's_ wards, when the bitch was pulling out all the stops like this...

Meg got up off the couch, brushed Nick's shoulder in a way that was sort of supposed to remind him she was still in his corner--mostly, anyway. He jumped a little and she smiled at him. He didn't seem any calmer, but, well, she wasn't exactly the best person to turn to for solidarity. Protection, sure, if it was worth it, but she was what she was.

Still, they were the outsiders--and sort of outclassed, fuck it all--in the room. It made sense to remind him whose team he _should_ be on.

She made her way over to the room's only window, carefully sidestepping the ritual circle, and twitched the curtain back just enough to see out.

"Fuck," she breathed.

Abaddon was standing in the street, staring up at the house. To human eyes, she probably wasn't doing much, but Meg could see her eyes darting back and forth, pitch-black with intent, sending teasing needles of powers to probe for weak points in the wards.

And she was fucking finding them.

"Who is it?" Nick asked behind her, voice tight with fear. "Can you see?"

"Relax, baby," she replied absently. "We've got you covered."

"Meg--"

"Hush," Naomi interrupted. Meg glanced over her shoulder, and the angel's focus had narrowed onto the rotting head in the center of the circle.

Nick fell silent. Meg stayed at the window, turning back to monitor Abaddon's progress with the wards.

Behind her, Naomi started chanting in Enochian. Most of what she was staying was pretty standard ritual framework and invocations, repeated and layered over and over, until the air was vibrating with her voice and the energy she was building.

Then her chant changed, sharpened, grew commanding and insistent, charged with the energy that only came on the edges of worlds, until Meg felt like she _herself_ was going to be ripped apart by it, even on the outside of the fucking circle.

Finally, when it seemed like the whole fucking universe was at the breaking point, Naomi said, "Restore."

The air _snapped,_ like a broken rubber band, and suddenly Meg could breathe again. She turned back into the room to see blue-white light fading from eyes that were now whole and perfect, in the whole and perfect face, framed by soft, perfect dark hair, of a dead nephil girl.

Nick was slumped against the couch, shivering and wide-eyed. The pressure of it all had given him a nosebleed. Hannah, perfectly intact, glanced at the other angel--who didn't have a single fucking hair out of place, either. Naomi nodded once, and Hannah brushed Nick's forehead lightly. The blood disappeared, and he seemed to be breathing easier.

Meg checked her own host--no wear and tear from that pressure, not yet, at least. She turned back to the window, just as the outer wards collapsed.

Naomi let out a soft breath. "That's one," she said.

"And two to go?" Hannah asked.

The other angel nodded. "Brace yourselves," she said, and reached for the Spear of Destiny.


	60. Part 6, Chapter 2: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

Naomi had kicked them out of the ritual room before starting, and Claire was torn between a kind of shameful sense of relief and mild irritation. Because she didn't want to have to see Nick hurting, maybe _dying,_ not to mention without his soul, but at the same time...

At the same time, it sort of hurt that she and Adam weren't allowed to be there when their friend needed them the most.

On the other hand, she supposed, it was sort of hard to be effective security when caught up in the center of things. And that was, in theory, why she and Adam were here--last line of defense, in case the wards failed.

Adam didn't seem nearly as agitated as she was. It had started raining at some point, and all he was doing was watching it drip down the glass. Of course, he might have been--probably was--just as concerned as her, but he was impossible to read. Nick seemed to do okay, but he was the exception. It almost, at least to Claire, seemed like Michael had burned away Adam's ability to process and express human emotions. Or, okay, maybe it hadn't been deliberate. Adam did insist that Michael had always done right by him. Maybe it was just that he'd been isolated in a very dangerous place for an incomprehensibly long time.

When she thought of it like that, it was a freaking miracle Adam functioned as well as he did.

But the waiting--the waiting was really starting to wear on her. To the point where she was almost starting to think it might be better to see whatever horrific things were happening to Nick. Anything was better than this endless not-knowing, with Adam drifting at the rain in the background.

She sighed and sat down on the bottom stair. "How do you think it's going up there?" she asked.

He was quiet a moment. "Nothing's exploded," he said. "So, that's probably good, right?"

"Yeah." And she hadn't heard screaming or anything, either--though, given Naomi's multi-layered wards, that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't happening.

Gah. She needed to stop thinking like that.

She sighed again and fidgeted anxiously with her taser, watching Adam watching the rain, trying to think of something--anything--distracting. Like...would there be a weird sort of reverse meteor shower, when Naomi finished? Or would things just...change? Resettle back to normal?

A dull, throbbing beat, like an out-of-tune timpani, pulsed through the air, jerking Claire out of her thoughts. She got to her feet, glad her taser was already in her hands.

"What was that?" she asked.

"A warning," he said, taking half a step closer to the window and drawing the angel blade he'd gotten from God alone knew where.

"Fuck," she muttered, as another off-key beat filled the air. "How do we play this?"

"Could go out and meet it. Could wait here and hope the wards hold."

Claire nodded. "Yeah." She inched closer to the window to join him. "Can you see them?"

A third beat shook her bones, and Adam shook his head. "Not yet. So I vote we sit tight 'til we do."

"Good idea."

For a few moments--punctuated by increasingly-frequent sobbing timpani beats--the two of them stood stock-still at the window, peering through the misty rain, trying to spot the threat.

The wards buckled and flashed, revealing a lone woman, staring up at the house. She had red hair, red lips, red nails--everything red, except her eyes, which were black.

"Demon," Claire breathed when the light died, in case Adam hadn't seen the eyes.

"She's alone," he said. "That good or bad?"

"Could be either," she replied. The timpani moaned a reproach. "This time? Probably bad. Do you recognize her?"

He shook his head and shifted his grip on his blade. "She's _strong._ "

Which probably meant...

_Fuck._ The _Knight._

The wards flashed again and Claire gripped her taser tight. "She's coming."

He nodded grimly, and nudged her gently back away from the window, following his own silent advice and retreating completely. "The wards aren't holding."

"Yeah," she said. "Crap. Do you see any paint anywhere? Or salt?"

Another shudder from the wards, and the drumbeat was constant now.

_God, I hope Naomi has another layer of wards upstairs._

"I have a better idea," Adam said. He backed a few paces further into the house's living room. There was a moth-eaten rug covering most of the floor. He flipped it up, exposing the hardwood underneath. "Stall her if the wards don't. Then lead her over this way. Buy me as much time as you can first." He shifted his grip on his blade and started etching a trap into the floor.

And, just like that, they had a _plan._ They were armed, they had a trap, she could exorcise faster than anyone except Nick...they could _do_ this.

She couldn't help it. She grinned a little at them. "If I do this right, we won't even need that. When you're done, go find some salt. We don't need to get fancy to replace the wards."

_As long as only the demon wards are down._

She squished that thought resolutely. She needed all of her confidence intact to face down the Knight.

At a nod from Adam, she went back to the foot of the stairs. She held her taser at the ready, leveled at the door. She could pull the trigger as soon as she had a target. With her free hand, she grabbed a holy water balloon from her bag--she only had three, plus her flask, of course, so she'd have to make her shots count. Still, with twenty seconds to charge her taser...

Three balloons and a flask would make a world of difference.

Behind her, Adam scratched at the floor, and the seconds ticked by with aching slowness, and the timpani alarm beats were a drumroll and then, finally, the wards shuddered and died.

The house let out one last moan, then the air stilled for a second before Abaddon, the last Knight of Hell, kicked down the door.


	61. Part 6, Chapter 3: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

They didn’t talk much on the drive to Indiana. Sam was busy scanning the news sites, trying to confirm what Gadreel had said about Muncie, and Dean was trying to plot strategy as much as he could. Because none of the usual things were guaranteed to work--they knew for a fact holy fire wouldn’t, and they had angel blades, sure, but he might be souped up enough to survive that, too.

_All we have to do is stall,_ he reminded himself. _Stall and survive._

And then there was Nick’s cemetery address burning a hole in his pocket--he was itching to ask Sam what he knew, if he knew anything. But there was that whole Cone of Silence thing, and probably they didn’t need any more distractions. It could wait.

“Got it!” Sam said.

“Yeah?” Dean glanced over at him.

“Video,” he said, and pushed play.

Dean didn’t watch, but audio was enough. “...so, basically, chick gets hit by a car, Metatron resurrects her, claims he’s Jesus?”

“Pretty much.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, it might actually work,” Sam said, with a shrug. “He’s supposed to be winning humanity’s allegiance or whatever, right?”

“Yeah, point.”

Dean shook his head and sighed, that annoying question of why-there resurfacing. "...hey, you know what Naomi meant? About symbolism or whatever?"

He blinked, and looked over at him. "Muncie is where Gabriel died."

"Oh." That--okay, yeah. Symbolism. He could see it now. Metatron was setting himself up as Gabriel's heir or something, to boost his standing with anyone who knew what had happened to the Archangel. It would be annoying--maybe even insulting--if it didn't make so much damn sense. Both angels had ditched Heaven when things got heated, both had managed to hide themselves on Earth for centuries, he'd had to shame both of them into stepping up to the plate...

Granted, that's where the similarities ended. _Gabriel_ had stepped up, all right. But they should've freaking left Metatron buried in his freaking desert library.

He parked a little ways away from the homeless camp where they’d tracked Metatron, and they started silently unloading weapons. They fell into a rhythm again, like they’d had before the past year, and Dean grinned a little internally. He’d said it a hundred times, and, promises aside--this was where they both belonged. Side-by-side, suiting up to take out something nasty that no one else could handle.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, one eyebrow raised.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing important. So, are we gonna do the last-words thing this time?”

He snorted. “When do we ever?”

“Good point,” he said, then locked the trunk and started off towards the camp proper, Sam half a step behind him.

Maybe two or three dozen people were gathered in the center of the camp, murmuring amongst themselves. There was a body, covered in a bloody sheet, off to one side.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. _Carrot and stick,_ Dean thought. _I’ll give him that much, he ain’t stupid._

As the homeless people started to realize they were there, they slowly went quiet, all turning to look at him and Sam. A ragged blonde stepped forward. “He’s expecting you.”

Another long look exchanged with his brother, but it wasn’t exactly surprising. Besides, they weren’t the ones who needed to keep quiet.

“Where is he?” Sam asked.

“Praying for our forgiveness.” She pointed at an abandoned warehouse that made up the back of the square. “You know what he is, right?”

Sam looked away, choosing not to answer.

“Damn right we do,” Dean said grimly.

The woman glared at him. “He said not to stop you,” she said, sounding seriously upset about it. He glanced over at the body again. _Okay, so maybe less carrot-and-stick and more ‘you fucking killed for me now I own you.’ Dick._

The two of them moved forward, and the crowd parted around them, watching them warily. _Not creepy at all,_ Dean thought. Well, he’d run worse gauntlets before.

“You ready?” he asked Sam when they reached the warehouse door.

His brother gave him a small, humorless smile. “What’d we say about last words?”

“Yeah.” He pulled out his blade--beside him, Sam mirrored the motion--and pushed open the door.

Metatron, sitting on the floor with his back to them, was waiting.


	62. Part 6, Chapter 4: Meg

 

**Meg**

 

Meg perched on the couch again, trying to track what Abaddon was doing, now that she was in the house. But, naturally, the fucking wards on this room muffled fucking _everything._ All she could tell was that the bitch was still inside, somewhere downstairs.

Which wasn’t exactly a fucking good thing, but it probably could’ve been worse. Hell, maybe fucking Crowley would show up, and they’d finally finish each other off. Claire and Adam would have ringside seats, so Meg could at least get a decent fucking recap later, even if she couldn’t watch.

Yeah, that wasn’t exactly likely. But a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

“Meg,” Nick said quietly, anxiously twisting his fingers.

“What’s up?”

Before he could answer, Naomi broke through the Spear’s packaging. The hairs on the back of Meg’s neck stood up and she felt her eyes darken-- _fuck,_ she’d forgotten how much raw power the damn thing had.

The angel placed the Spear at the base of the nephil’s severed neck, the tip pointing due north, then began her chanting again. Meg let out a slow breath, consciously forcing her eyes back to her host’s natural state. “Sorry, baby,” she said, as lightly as she could manage. “You were saying?”

He drew in a breath. “Who’s downstairs?”

Meg glanced at Hannah, whose attention was all on Naomi and the ritual. “…you’re not gonna like it, baby. They weren’t lying when they said ignorance was fucking bliss.”

“Meg, please. I can’t…just tell me,” he said. “I know there’s a threat, I _know_ they’re in trouble, I just…please?” His nose was starting to bleed again already, from the pressure. Freaking him out probably wouldn’t help him hold together any better.

Fuck. On the other hand, it was Hannah’s job to clean him up after, not Meg’s. And while ignorance _would_ have been bliss, knowing half the story and not the details fucking sucked. She sighed. _Fuck._ “Abaddon,” she said quietly.

_That_ got the idle angel’s attention. She gave Meg a sharp look.

Nick paled.

“Don’t worry,” Hannah tried to reassure him. “Everything will be all right.”

He shook his head frantically. “No. No, you have to help them. Please.”

“I wish I could.”

“You wish--but--they’re right downstairs. Hannah, please. I-I know the bargain you made with Claire, I understand you don’t want to…I know what you promised her, but _please._ ”

Fuck. There were too many damn associations, and too much fucking history with his face. She couldn’t even enjoy watching him bloody and unspooling like this, the way she would with any other fucking human. _Fuck._

“It isn’t that,” Hannah said, with what seemed to be genuine sorrow. “I cannot leave this room. None of us can. Not until the spell is complete.”

Well, _shit._ “You might’ve mentioned that _before_ fucking locking us all in,” Meg hissed.

Hannah blinked at her. “I cannot speak for Naomi or the others, but I assumed that you knew.”

…okay, fair enough, it was sort of a reasonable assumption. And she wasn't actually all _that_ surprised to learn it. But _still._

Nick shivered and wrenched at his fingers again. “There’s no…there’s no way?”

She shook her head. “I am sorry. But even if I could reach and aid them effectively in my current state…the wards on this room aren’t just keeping evil things out. They’re also containing any potential backlash from the spell itself. If I disrupt them to go help Claire and Adam before Naomi completes her work, I will unleash all of that energy. It will likely bring down this house and kill everyone inside anyway.”

Yeah. She definitely should’ve figured that part out, if not going in then at least after the first fucking part made their resident human fucking _bleed._

He slumped and buried his head in his hands.

“Relax, baby,” Meg said. “Abaddon’s probably not gonna kill them before these two can play big damn heroes anyway.”

He looked up at her, suspicious. “How can you be sure?”

“Because that bitch likes to fucking play with her food,” she said.

He shuddered and looked away again.

“Look, no one’s saying it’s gonna be a fucking trip to the beach, but focus on the positive. They’ll be _alive,_ and the angels can fix whatever damage as soon as they can take the wards down. So _relax,_ baby. We’ve got this.”

“Be still,” Naomi said, before either Nick or Hannah could respond to that.

The air thickened and got fucking _hot,_ like pooling lava, as the active angel’s chanting grew pointed and commanding again. Meg could hear Nick next to her, struggling to breathe, and this time the pressure was even getting to her. She tasted blood, and she heard something crack--which may have come from downstairs, or it may have been one of the human’s more delicate bones.

_Fuck me,_ she breathed inside her head, as sweat traced searing trails down her host’s face and back.

“Redeem,” Naomi said, and the air lightened and cooled in an instant. The Spear burned with righteous, red-gold fire, pouring up and around the nephil head and settling into a humming halo, caressing her hair.

Meg let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and wiped the fucking blood off her face. “Well, that was a fucking blast,” she said, her voice shaking more than she would ever admit to later.

Beside her, Nick whimpered, eyes glassy and tinged red, breathing shallow and way too fast. His twisty fingers were, like she’d guessed, outright broken. Maybe other things too, but she couldn’t tell for sure.

Hannah, after a glance at the other angel to confirm, rested a hand on the human’s trembling shoulder. His breathing eased, and his eyes and hands returned to normal.

“Meg, I’m ready when you are,” Naomi said quietly.

Meg nodded, and turned to Nick, just as a fucking _loud_ crash came up from below.

He flinched and looked towards the door, as if desperately gauging his chances.

“Hey! Baby, look at me,” she said.

With painfully fucking obvious reluctance, he did.

“Sooner we finish this, the sooner these two can go help your friends. Okay?” _And the sooner I can get the fuck_ out _of here with my favor._

He took a breath, then nodded, shaking a little. “Okay.”

“You good?”

He nodded again, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”


	63. Part 6, Chapter 5: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

The door blasted open, narrowly missing Claire, and she barely took a second to aim before firing her taser at the oncoming Knight.

She _thought_ she felt it connect, but maybe she missed--or maybe, Abaddon being Special, the weapon didn’t work as well on her as on a regular demon.

Either way, a split second after she’d pulled the trigger, she found herself slammed halfway through the wall, her feet about a foot off the ground, the demon’s hand around her throat.

“You _are_ a clever one, aren’t you?” she said, her voice low and rich and amused.

Somewhere along the way she'd dropped her first balloon, but she hung onto her taser by a thread--when it recharged, she could use the short-range function and make _sure_ she hit the demon this time. Except it took twenty seconds, and maybe she didn’t have that long before she blacked out, and it would shock her, too (not fatally, probably, because of the mods, but Abaddon would _definitely_ recover first), and she couldn’t be sure the Knight wasn’t just immune and—

Okay, seeing stars, she had to move _fast_ and--the second water balloon, right there, on the railing, an arm's length away. If she could just reach it…

She scrabbled with her free hand, her fingertips brushing the rubbery end of the thing, and finally, _finally_ got enough of a grip, between two fingers, to grab it and break it over Abaddon’s head.

Whether or not she was immune to the taser, holy water _definitely_ worked on the Knight.

Claire dropped to the ground, sucking in a desperately needed breath, and rolled out of the way just in time to avoid a kick to her head.

“Damn right I’m clever,” she wheezed. _Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…now!_ She fired off the taser again, this time getting a solid hit.

Abaddon yelped and dropped to her knees.

Claire dragged herself up to her own, coughed once, then started, as fast as she could, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--”

The demon’s foot connected with the side of her head, and she saw stars again and tasted blood. _Okay. Not immune, but it wears off faster. Good to know._ She could still hear Adam scratching away at the floor in the next room; she needed to keep the Knight busy for another minute or so. Somehow. And not die. Not dying would definitely be a plus.

“Where did you get that shiny toy, sweetie?” Abaddon asked, and it made Claire’s shiver. Meg used pet names, too, and, yeah, Meg was a demon, too, but something…when Meg called her names, she was patronizing, and mocking, and annoying, but it wasn’t a _threat._ Not like this. There was something _different_ when Abaddon did it, something unquantifiably different, something nauseating and ugly and terrifying.

She spat out a mouthful of blood. Didn’t look like any teeth came with it, at least. That would suck. “I made it. Like you said, I’m a clever girl.”

Abaddon laughed, rich and warm and spine-tinglingly _empty._ “Oh, you _are._ I’m going to enjoy tearing you to pieces, little girl.”

Claire bared her teeth. “You can try.” Twenty seconds, and another hit.

This time, she didn’t waste time on an exorcism, just scrambled a few more feet out of the way. She didn’t want to risk glancing over at Adam, didn’t want to draw the demon’s attention there until they were ready, but God _damn_ it could he be carving any slower?

She ducked past a dusty table, trying to gauge the right angles to keep Abaddon interested in her, keep her away from the stairs, _and_ keep her from noticing Adam until they were ready.

Abaddon followed, faster than Claire could even breathe, and knocked her down with a wave of her hand. “I will give you credit for trying, sweetheart,” she said, crouching down and baring her teeth in something that was somewhere between a smile and a glower. “But your lightning gun is getting a little old.” She reached for Claire’s throat, nails first this time, and _oh, God, I’m going to bleed to death, she’s going to cut me open and--_

“Claire, now!” Adam called, and not a second too soon.

The demon was distracted just long enough for Claire to get out from under her and pelt towards the other room, where Adam was waiting.

Two more seconds ‘til the taser was charged and--

Her foot caught on the ragged edge of the trap and she went sprawling. She felt a sharp stab of pain on her right leg and something wet on her jeans just as Abaddon pushed into the room. She scrambled back, as fast as she could, the Knight following, and--

Abaddon’s eyes went black as she reached the edge of the trap. “Clever girl. Clever, clever girl, too clever for her own good.”

“Bite me,” Claire said, raggedly.

Adam offered her a hand up, which she accepted.

The demon eyed the boy for a minute. “And aren’t _you_ a pretty puzzle.”

“Save it,” she said. Adam, as always, failed to engage. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus--”

_Crack!_

Adam blinked.

Claire tried to ignore it. “--immundus spiritus, omnis satanica--”

_Crack!_

Abaddon smiled.

She swallowed, and went on. “--satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernal--”

With one final _crack,_ the floor gave way under the trap, dumping them into the dark basement. Claire felt her taser slip out of her hand and heard it skitter away along the floor.

Somewhere in the darkness, warm and low and way too close for comfort, Abaddon laughed.


	64. Part 6, Chapter 6: Karl

 

**Karl**

 

Karl was drowning in Gadreel’s terror. If he didn’t find a way to surface soon, then…well, actually, he didn’t really know _what_ would happen then, other than his best guess being ‘not good things.’

He took a deep breath and plunged upward, as best he could, trying to find some part of his angel he could communicate with, could try to calm.

“Hey!” he shouted--or, was it really shouting, if it was all inside his head, anyway? He’d never thought to ask those questions, when he had the chance.

Whatever it was, it worked, at least a little. Gadreel paused.

“You’re not alone,” he said, trying to keep himself calm, at least. He was an island, he was a shelter, he was his angel’s safe harbor. That was what he was here for, in the end. That was why he kept saying yes.

Gadreel shivered, wrapped around his soul, and--wow, when he was actually conscious of it, it felt very strange, very…he didn’t have a word for it.

“You’re _not_ alone,” he repeated. “I’m here. Let’s figure this out, okay?”

“Yes,” the angel breathed, but he was still shaking, buzzing anxiously around his human’s soul.

“What do you need?” Karl asked.

“I cannot stay here. I need to get _out._ ”

“Okay.” Good. …well, okay, not _good,_ but at least it was a simple, definable task. “Does the door open from the inside?”

“No.”

“Can we persuade her to let us out?”

Gadreel shivered again, and tightened his grip. If he were human, Karl would’ve pictured it as white-knuckle gripping the nearest solid object, to ground himself. And…

Well, that was weird.

They were in his bar. Gadreel was present as the humming, vaguely humanoid blur of light, blue-white threaded with purple scars, he’d been when Karl had first dreamed him, which was probably a relief. If he had to have this conversation with his own face--or even Gadreel’s other vessel, the tall guy with the long hair--it would have been just plain weird.

“…are you doing this or am I?” he asked.

“Something else to focus on,” the angel mumbled, hands of light dancing fretfully across the bar. “I can…I can change it, or take us back, if you do not want it.”

“No,” Karl said. “This is fine. Whatever’s best for you.”

He nodded. “We cannot-- _I_ cannot persuade her. She will not…I am surprised that they listened to me as long as they did, even with Metatron’s influence. Perhaps Castiel…but that will take _time,_ and our mission is too important and I…I cannot _stay_ here.” He flickered madly.

On instinct, Karl reached for the angel’s hand. “Okay. Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll help.”

Gadreel drew in a breath, then let it out. “Yes.”

For a moment, they sat there in silence. The TV on the wall came to staticky life, showing Castiel arguing with the angel guarding them. Karl ignored it. “…what about…would the cell hold me, if you weren’t with me?”

Gadreel flinched, and Karl wished he could take it back. Or at least phrase the question better. “I am sorry. I am so, so, sorry, I never intended…”

“I’m not blaming you, that’s not what I meant,” he said. “I more meant…if you went dormant, or hid behind me--if that's even possible--could _I_ let us out?”

The angel considered that for a minute, his hands slowing. “I…perhaps. These cells weren’t built for human souls, and I could retreat behind you, if necessary. But…” He flickered madly again, pictures pulsing through the light, pictures that Karl really, _really_ wished he hadn’t seen.

He swallowed. “But?”

“There will be guards on the other side,” Gadreel said quietly. “It is unlikely that I will be able to fight past them all, even if we manage to free Castiel as well, and they--they will hurt you, too.”

Karl thought, but didn’t say, that there wasn’t much chance of avoiding that _anyway,_ but--

“I do not believe they will harm you without provocation,” the angel answered.

He blinked, and thought he saw a shadow of a smile in the light.

“I am inside your head, remember? I can hear your thoughts.”

“Right, of course,” he said sheepishly. “But…look, if there’s any chance it’ll work, I’m willing to take that risk.”

“You say that, because you do not _understand_ the risk,” Gadreel said. “I cannot…I _will_ not allow that to happen to you. No. We…we will have to find another way.”

“Okay,” Karl said, and glanced up at the TV.

The view had moved away from the half-view of the angel guarding them, arguing with Castiel in the next cell--they hadn’t been able to see the other angel, even before that. And Gadreel apparently either wasn’t paying enough attention to listen or was flat-out preventing any audio from reaching the bar.

But now, he was looking at the cell around him, at the fragments of stone and detritus littering the bench.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, looking back at the light.

Gadreel ducked his head, avoiding Karl’s eyes. “I cannot…I cannot stay here. And I…I do not think I will ever get out again. They will never let me out, and I…I am so, so sorry, that I brought you into this place.”

That did _not_ sound good at _all._ “Gadreel, I chose you. _Twice._ Stop dancing around it and just _tell me._ Please.”

He shivered again, and Karl felt the movement thrumming around his soul. “I could…I could break down the door for Castiel. He can complete the mission. And then they…they would not hold me anymore. They would never be able to hurt me again. _Or_ you.”

It took a few seconds for Karl’s brain to catch up and process all of that. “Oh.”

“I…if you allow me to do this, I will ensure that you are protected. I will do everything in my power to make _sure_ that you will feel no pain.”

Oh. _Oh._ “There’s no other way?” he said, and--it was stupid, okay, because he’d signed up for this for better or for worse and, the weirdness with their first bargain aside, he’d known it was going to be forever. But he didn’t want…this wasn’t at _all_ how he’d pictured the end.

“I will…I do not know. I…I cannot stay here, and Castiel _must_ reach Metatron’s office and the tablet,” Gadreel said. “But if…I will not do this unless you agree.”

Karl stared down at the bar, at their hands on the bar--his solid, the angel’s nothing but light. “What will happen to me, after, if you do this?”

“This body will be destroyed, but _you_ \--your soul--will be safe,” he said firmly. “Of that I am absolutely certain. You are a pure and honest human soul in Heaven. You will be transported to _your_ Heaven, where you will know nothing but peace and all of your greatest joys for the rest of eternity.”

That didn’t…that didn’t sound so bad. “And you?”

Gadreel hesitated. “I…am not certain. None of us are certain, what may happen to us when we…I have heard that I will simply…vanish, become nothingness.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

The light shrugged, a shivery, jerky motion. “There are far, _far_ worse things than oblivion. It is certainly better than staying here. And my…the means I have of doing it will ensure Castiel completes our mission. It is not a bad death, all things considered.”

The angel wanted it. Karl could read that clear as day. “And I won’t feel it?”

He shook his head. “I will build a wall, so my Grace cannot sear your soul.” He hesitated again. “I…I am not fool enough to promise, but I will do all that I can to spare you any pain.”

“Thanks,” Karl said. “…but if you wall me off, then you’ll be alone.”

The humming turned to a soft, sad keening. “Only for a moment.”

But angels weren’t built to be alone, any more than humans were. Maybe that was why, when everything went like it was supposed to, there was nothing that felt as…as right, or as good as being a vessel.

“And if I…if I’m with you?”

“There will be pain.” Gadreel looked away again. “And I cannot promise it will end with me. I cannot ask you to…I _will_ not ask you to endure that. I will not be so selfish.”

On the one hand, that was mildly patronizing--implying that Karl couldn’t agree to this, as much as he had everything else involved in his possession. On the other…

He knew damn well the things his angel had done. He knew that his face had been worn for a lot of it. And he knew how much the chance to be a guardian again, to be a _protector_ again, of at least this little corner of humanity, meant to Gadreel.

“You can do it,” Karl said finally. “It’s up to you whether you wall me off, but…you can do it. I consent.”

Something in the angel relaxed, and the light was vibrating less, and the keening, anxious hum turned softer, more wistful, and painfully grateful. He brushed Karl’s cheek lightly with his hand, and then Karl was left alone in the bar, which was now lined in lead and chrome, like a Cold War fallout shelter. He poured himself a drink--a top-shelf Scotch he could never afford if this were real--and leaned on the bar, waiting for the end.

Gadreel had--out of kindness to which of them, he couldn’t be sure--left the TV on. He’d even provided sound this time. Karl got to hear his angel’s last goodbye, and hopefully his angel got to know that he was maybe a little less alone than they’d thought.

The bar filled up with blinding, searing white light that had no source, and then everything went dark.


	65. Part 6, Chapter 7: Meg

 

**Meg**

 

Meg slid into Nick’s lap and pulled his head forward for a kiss. He tensed a little, without actually resisting. _Come on, baby, you should know how demons claim souls._ He didn’t relax, but he didn’t pull away either; he just sat there, frozen, under her hands and mouth. He tasted like blood and heat, ash and stardust.

She forced his mouth open, sliding her tongue between his lips. The more contact, the better, especially since this wasn’t her usual MO--she was a soldier, or maybe a spy. Definitely not a fucking _sales_ demon. Not to mention how deeply rooted his fucking soul was. Now that she was actively picking at it, she could see the work anchoring it in place, and it was _beautifully_ wrought. Damn impressive work.

If she didn’t need to fucking dismantle it, she’d be able to appreciate it a hell of a lot more.

Beside her, she felt Hannah shift uncomfortably, which--whatever, not Meg’s problem. Most angels were fucking prudes.

Okay, claim laid, the easy part. Well, easy-ish. Nick’s _body_ wasn’t resisting, exactly, but there was _some_ sort of fucking backlash that nearly knocked her off his lap when she marked his soul as hers. But she’d been expecting that, or something like it, after trying to possess him all those years ago.

But now she had to draw the fucking thing _out._

She shifted her hands, keeping one pressed against the base of his skull, and gripped tight to his side with the other, leaving what were probably some impressive bruises for Hannah to clean up later. His ribs creaked under her grip, but she didn’t let up--couldn’t, not if she wanted this to fucking work. He whimpered faintly against her mouth, but continued helpfully not resisting.

She took a (metaphorical) deep breath, gripped the edges of his soul, and _yanked._ He made another noise, this one a little more audibly, obviously in pain, and she tasted blood again. Not metaphorical ‘you-taste-like-blood’ this time, but actual, literal fucking blood. _Not my problem,_ she reminded herself, and kept pulling.

No more yanking, though--she switched to a steady, smooth, even pressure, pushing and pulling and twisting the soul free of its cage until, finally, the air filled with a shrieking, piercing note on the high edge of human hearing, and she felt a shimmer of light on her lips.

She moved her hand from the back of his head to his chin, ready to receive the soul. She broke the kiss with a lot of fucking effort, and the soul slipped into her bloody hand, white and shiny and pulsing.

It was cold, wonderfully fucking _cold,_ and for half a second, Meg was caught up by a nostalgic sense of fucking _right._

But then Nick fell away, bleeding from--well, pretty much _everywhere._ Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, old scars and new ones. He crashed onto Hannah’s lap, and the angel’s eyes lit faintly as she rested her hands on either side of his forehead.

“I can’t hold him long,” she said quietly, the last thing Meg needed to draw her out of basking in the cold light of Nick’s shimmering, atypical soul. “Please hurry.”

Meg nodded and stood up--she was covered in blood, too; fuck if she knew for sure when he’d _started_ bleeding, but it was sure as hell before his soul had completely left the building.

Doing her best to hide her reluctance, she passed the thing off to Naomi, who was still in the circle, watching the couch drama with a fucking _annoyingly_ enigmatic expression.

The angel received the soul with a brief nod. She cradled it almost lovingly as she started to chant again.

This time--maybe because she was a hell of a lot closer to the circle, or maybe because of residual buildup from the first two ingredients--the pressure of the gathered energy hit Meg almost immediately. It felt like a fucking hammer to the head, and she dropped to her knees. She could feel Hannah struggling behind her, hear wet, ragged, not-quite-breaths from Nick, and taste blood. Again, not a fucking metaphor, only this time it was _hers._

Fuck.

She felt her host’s bones starting to snap, first the smaller, more fragile ones, then lances of pain through her fucking ribs. Almost like being thrown off a fucking roof again, only the impact wasn’t instantaneous; the gravity kept fucking _building._

Until, finally, Naomi cried, “Rise!”

Just like that, the pressure vanished.

Which didn’t make it any more fucking comfortable. The room filled with a shrieking chorus of not-really-present angel voices, and a blinding white light that really should have fucking _obliterated_ Meg. She felt wings buffeting her from either side, no fucking clue whether they were Hannah’s or Naomi’s or both, and she didn’t really fucking care anyway.

The glow died away by inches, leaving the circle and the silhouette of the haloed nephil head burned into the floor. Naomi was cradling Nick’s soul in one hand; she'd actually managed to keep the fucking thing intact and ready for re-implantation, only--

_Huh._

Maybe it was nothing, just an afterimage from the light being fucking _everywhere,_ but Meg could’ve sworn she saw Naomi divert a piece of it into a tiny crystal vial.

But she blinked and there was no sign of it, just Naomi stepping out of the fucking circle and pushing the soul back into Nick’s chest. “Guard him, Meg. Hannah, help the children. I’ll find the Winchesters.”

Hannah nodded and smiled, despite the fucking obvious strain behind her eyes that even Meg could see. She frowned down at Nick for another brief moment of concentration, and then the last of the blood stopped flowing, his scars returning to their old shapes and patterns. Like he’d never been fucking desouled at all.

“Sure, fine,” Meg said, pushing herself up and fucking _wobbling_ over to the couch and flopping next to him, not really caring too much that she was fucking obviously, embarrassingly unsteady.

The angels vanished in a flurry of wings, and she and Nick were left alone. She closed her eyes, breathing in woodsmoke and ozone, keeping one ear on the human’s faint, ragged wheezing.

They’d actually fucking pulled it off. Sure, she felt kind of like she’d been hit by a truck--and, by the sound of things, so did Nick--and they were still fucking stuck here, and who the fuck knew what had gone on with Abaddon or Metatron, but…

Well, she’d had worse days. And she’d earned her fucking favor.

It might not be totally over yet, but she’d done her part. Yeah. She could call this a fucking victory, at least for now. Nice to be on the winning team again, for once.

It had been one hell of an experience, and she was fucking glad it was done, and, most importantly, they’d fucking _won._


	66. Part 6, Chapter 8: Claire

 

**Claire**

 

Without waiting for her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness--not much light came through the hole in the ceiling--Claire groped for her taser. Her last holy water balloon had broken under her when she fell, soaking her jeans even more, and she didn't have any other weapons left. So it had to be close. It _had_ to be--

She found a hand instead. She yelped and jerked away, stumbling back as far as she could. “A-Adam?” she whispered, praying for confirmation.

The hand shot out of the gloom and grabbed her wrist, and she caught a glimpse of beetle-black eyes, framed by red hair, and a toothy, red-lipped smile.

“No,” Abaddon said.

On instinct, Claire struggled to free herself, even though there was no freaking way she’d be able to break the demon’s grip. And where _was_ Adam—he was somewhere in the basement. He had to be. She was sure. If he hadn’t fallen through the trap with the two of them, then he would’ve jumped down to help her. She was _sure._

But she couldn’t hear any movement except her and the demon, she couldn’t _see_ well enough to find him, and what if he was _hurt_ or worse and--

_Stop. Stop fighting. Stop_ panicking. _Stop wasting your energy. You have a voice. Freaking_ use it.

In the split second it took her to shut down the panic and make her plan, Abaddon clapped a hand over her mouth and slammed her up and over against the wall.

Claire heard the back of her head crack and saw stars.

“None of that, sugar,” the demon said, then reached into her mouth and _pinched._

She tasted blood. She tasted a _lot_ of blood, filling her mouth and trickling down her throat, making her gag. She felt something tear at the top of her throat, and it _hurt,_ more than she could ever have imagined.

Abaddon smiled and dropped Claire’s tongue on the floor.

“And now, kitten,” she purred, “we can have some fun.”

She drew one razor-sharp nail down Claire’s throat, along the exposed vein, stopping just short of pressing hard enough to pierce the skin, until she hit the collarbone. She dug in, first one nail, then another, leaving a bloody handprint above Claire’s right breast.

Claire gave a wet, gurgling scream, feeling Abaddon’s claws reach in to touch her ribs, choking on her own hot blood.

And then the demon started to _pull,_ her red nails scraping along the bones, gouging them, ripping the flesh as they passed, and all she could see or hear or feel or taste was blood, red-hot and pounding, and she prayed, to God and every angel she knew, that she would just pass out. If she could just pass out, she had to be bleeding enough to pass out by now, oh _God._

“Wake up, kitten,” Abbadon breathed, right in her ear. “We’re just getting started.”

Claire whimpered, and struggled to breathe around the blood. The demon’s hand was no longer inside her, at least, but everything was fuzzy around the edges, and still throbbing.

“I am going to strip you bare of skin, kitten,” she said, with a smile. “I am going to strip you bare of skin and make you eat it raw. I am going to make you watch while I tear your friends and your lovers and your family to pieces, and then, _maybe,_ if I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you die.”

Claire didn’t really have a comeback for that. Even if she could have said it, without her tongue, she knew she couldn’t stop her. Adam was somewhere in the basement, had to be, but she hadn’t heard him move, or speak, or…

And no one was coming. No one would ever come. The angels had their own war to fight, and even the ones who _said_ they cared would put that war _way_ ahead of her lost, broken family. And everyone else was too far away to help.

She was going to die here. She and Adam were going to _die_ and then Abaddon would get through the wards upstairs and _Nick,_ oh, God, what the Knight would do to Nick…

“Nothing to say?” She laughed. “Pretty little kitty’s been declawed.”

She drew some sort of strength or defiance--or maybe it was just spite, she’d been spending way too much time with Meg lately--from that, collected as much blood as she could as close to the front of her mouth as she could and _spat._

Abaddon’s eyes glittered with a sort of amused rage--or maybe enraged amusement--and she slapped Claire, hard enough that the girl felt her teeth loosen in her jaw.

Then there was a flare of orange light, scattered sparks launching up Abaddon’s body, outlining her skull. She cried out and dropped Claire, who fell in a boneless, bloody pile on the floor.

Adam was on the ground behind her, his left leg twisted up behind him, white bone glinting in the orange light. His angel blade was slick with demon blood, and his eyes glittered with something incomprehensible, but more than he’d _ever_ been able to show before.

“I,” he breathed, “can _stop_ you here.”

Abaddon hissed at him, and Claire could see a bleeding hole in her thigh--probably the best Adam could reach from his angle; if Abaddon had been human, she would have bled out in moments.

He turned the blade in his hand and repeated, “I can stop you _here._ ”

She snarled and turned her bloody hands on him, but before either of them could strike, the room filled with pure, cool, blue-white angelic light.

It took Claire a few seconds to refocus, and after-images of wings kept dancing in her vision long after it cleared enough for her to see Hannah standing between her and Adam.

Abaddon was gone.

Hannah knelt next to her. “I’m so sorry, Claire. Of course we heard you. I came as quickly as I could.” She reached out a gently glowing hand and touched Claire’s forehead.

The blood in her mouth melted away, the gashes in her flesh smoothed over, and the ache in her ribs slowly faded. She coughed once and ran her new tongue along her teeth, and slumped a little, relieved.

The angel turned to Adam, resting a hand on his hip and Claire watched with a sort of sick fascination as his leg straightened out and mended itself.

“Is Nick alive?” he asked, quietly. He was back to his normal monotone, but, by the light from Hannah’s eyes and hands, Claire could tell he’d been crying.

“He was when I left,” she confirmed. “He’s very weak, but he survived. Meg is with him.”

Claire could’ve burst into tears herself at that. “He’s--he’ll be okay?”

The angel smiled. “Yes.”

“What about--wh-what about everyone else?”

“Naomi has gone to your brothers, Adam,” Hannah said, her eyes flicking over to him briefly. “I haven’t been able to make contact with Castiel yet. We should know more soon.”

“Oh good,” Claire said, and _dammit_ the edges of her eyes were definitely prickling.

“If I might suggest,” Hannah said, “we should go back up to the ritual room. It’s probably safer if we’re all together, and I can rebuild some of the wards on the old foundations.”

“All right,” Adam answered for both of them.

Claire held out a hand to help him up, and the three of them made their way back upstairs to where Meg and Nick were waiting.


	67. Part 6, Chapter 9: Dean

 

**Dean**

 

It really said something about his life, that Dean was familiar enough with the feeling of coming back from the dead to recognize it when it happened. Again.

The world snapped into focus around him as he drew in a breath. Naomi was kneeling on his left, the glow dying from her eyes and hands, and not quite fading from a chain around her neck, one he was pretty sure she hadn’t had before.

Huh. It almost reminded him of the one Uriel had had. Weird.

That detail slipped away almost as quick as it had come, back into the ‘just-died-for-a-minute’ fog.

Sam, on Dean’s other side, let out a shaky breath. “Dean?”

“I’m good,” he said, and sat up. He was still a little groggy, but at least he could freaking _breathe_ now. Getting stabbed and freaking drowning in his own blood moved a couple spots up on the ‘suckiest ways to die’ list. “You?”

He just shook his head, then pulled Dean closer and hugged him tight.

Dean hugged back, just as hard. Nothing like one of them dying to make the rest of their problems seem a hell of a lot less important.

But it had been close--too damn close. He was just lucky _he’d_ been the one stupid enough to let Metatron past his guard, that Sam had been on the freaking other side of the room, that Naomi had gotten here fast enough, before one of them went back on their bargain and decided the limits didn’t matter anymore and fucked everything up again. Because Sam _had_ had a point about that being a pretty damn consistent result of them trying to fix each other’s deaths.

“It’s all good. We’re okay,” he said, then looked up at Naomi for confirmation.

She smiled slightly. “The spell was successful, yes,” she answered his unspoken question. “Hannah is with Claire and Adam. Nick survived, but he hadn’t regained consciousness when I left.”

Which argued for him _not_ becoming a freaking angel. Good. One less mess for him to clean up after this. It almost looked like they’d actually managed to solve more problems than they caused, for the first time in freaking _ever._

“And Claire and Adam are okay?” Sam pressed.

“They had some trouble, but Hannah will be able to clean up,” Naomi assured him. “You can ask them for details. I wasn’t able to pick up much.”

Okay, less good, but they were still freaking alive, at least. “What about Cas?” he asked.

“He and Gadreel haven’t checked in with me yet,” Naomi said. “But I think--” She stopped abruptly, her eyes focusing creepily _inward_ for a moment.

“…Naomi?” Sam tried.

No answer.

Dean let go of his brother long enough to wave a hand in front of her face.

She caught it. “Hush,” she said, without her eyes moving or changing focus. And without letting go of his freaking hand.

He managed to jerk it free himself after a couple minutes, swearing under his breath.

She blinked and looked back at them. “Metatron’s power has broken,” she said. “Castiel played a trick on him with Angel Radio. I was listening to his confession.”

“Way to go, Cas,” Dean said, rubbing at his wrist. Freaking angel’s grip was strong.

“So, it’s really over?” Sam asked.

“Your part is,” she said. “And the radio trick will make it much easier for us to restabilize Heaven in the weeks and months to come.” She actually looked almost relieved as she said it. “That is to everyone’s benefit, I think.”

“No shit,” Dean muttered.

She ignored that, and stood up. “I can take you back to the others, and then I should return to Heaven. I’m sure Castiel will join you as soon as he has Metatron secured.”

“What about…uh, what about Gadreel?” Sam asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“You’ll have to ask Castiel,” Naomi said. “He and Metatron made no mention of Gadreel, and no one has reached out to me directly yet.”

Which could mean a lot of things. Fuck if Dean had any clue which it was, though.

“Okay,” Sam said, still noncommittal. He stood up, offering Dean a hand.

He took it--not that he really needed it, but the contact was nice, whatever. “Thanks for the offer, but we can drive back.”

“It’ll be faster if I take you,” she pointed out, obviously irritated.

“Yeah, tough,” he said. “Not leaving my baby here.”

She sighed. “I can bring the car as well.”

He didn’t like that much better, but Sam was giving him the eyes, so he caved. This one time. “Fine.”

“All right. Brace yourselves,” she said, then reached up to put a hand on each of their shoulders. With a flutter of her wings, they were back at the door of her creepily-warded house. “Be well,” she said, then left them there.

The car was, as Naomi had promised, safely behind them on the street. After making sure she really was okay, he exchanged a look with Sam, then shrugged and headed to the door. It didn’t tingle when he opened it this time, or at least not the same way it had when they’d come before.

Inside, to the right of the door, there was a jagged-edged hole in the floor of what was probably supposed to be the living room. “The hell?”

“I was making a trap, and I carved too deep,” Adam answered quietly. “It fell apart underneath us.” He was sitting at the foot of the stairs, waiting for them. He seemed okay, except a bandage on his right hand.

Sam blinked at it. “Didn’t Hannah--?”

“Grace burn,” he said. “She couldn’t, said something like that has to heal naturally. I don’t think Gabriel’s blade likes me very much.”

Sam stared at him, then started to ask something, but Dean cut him off.

“You can fill us in later. Cas back yet?”

He shook his head. “Meg’s upstairs with Claire and Nick. Hannah went quiet a couple minutes ago, then left. Something about the angel tablet getting smashed and Heaven being safe again.”

Well, that was more than Naomi had given them, but it tracked, more or less.

“All right. Soon as he gets here, we can compare notes on what the hell happened,” he said.

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, but he didn't seem all that happy about waiting.

Adam nodded and stood up, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on his burned hand, then led the way up to the room.

Meg was hovering by the door, slightly bruised and bloody-looking. "Awesome, you boys are here. Tell Clarence I said hi."

Sam blinked. "You're not staying?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, Moose. Too much fucking Heaven still floating around here."

...yeah, fair enough, that made sense. Even Dean could sort of feel something in the air, and he was probably the least sensitive person there. "All right. You gonna drop off the radar again?"

She rolled her eyes. "You gonna forget to use your fucking radar again?"

"We'll be in touch," Sam said, smiling a little at her.

She grinned back and gave them a slightly mocking salute, then pushed past them and headed out the door.

Adam went over to Claire, who was sitting on the ground next to the couch. She was covered in dried blood, which-- _fuck,_ what the hell had _happened_ here?

Any thought of asking was derailed, though, when he saw Nick.

He was breathing, which was about the only positive thing Dean could say right now. He looked even crappier than he had right after pulling Adam out of the Cage, which was freaking saying something. If he couldn’t hear him breathing, faint and raspy, he would’ve sworn he was a freaking corpse. And it looked like there was a hell of a lot of dried blood on _his_ clothes, too. “Shit,” he breathed.

Well, if _that_ wasn’t freaking confirmation that the whole ‘what if I become an angel’ thing had been a pile of paranoid bullshit, he had no idea what would be.

“We have to get him to a hospital,” Sam said.

“That’s what I said,” Adam added.

But Claire shook her head. “No. No, we can’t, he’ll freak. B-besides, Hannah already healed him, so what can a hospital do that we can't? I’ll call Mom, and we’ll take him home, and…and figure it out from there. Or something.”

“I got a better idea,” Dean said. “Bunker’s maybe safer, and definitely closer. We could take him there.”

She hesitated, and looked at Adam, who shrugged. “Fine,” she said. “Just…no hospital.”

Dean could feel Sam glaring at him, but he ignored that. _It beats letting the three of them wander off on their own,_ he thought.

Before he could say anything on the subject, though, he felt a familiar rush of wings and Cas was standing in the middle of the room.

"Cas!" Sam said. "You made it!"

"Yes," he said. "How much have you heard?"

"Not much," Dean said. "Naomi told us you did something with Angel Radio?"

He nodded. "Yes. Metatron is safely contained. He's in prison now."

"Right," Dean said. "And the bastard's still breathing because...?"

"That is something for the Host to work out amongst ourselves," Cas said, with just the faintest note of warning in his voice.

He held up his hands. "Fine. Whatever. Just...don't lose track of him again."

"We won't."

"What happened?" Sam asked. "Naomi didn't tell us much, and it sounds like Hannah didn't, either."

"Gadreel is dead," Cas said. "He turned himself into a bomb, to help me escape prison and get to the office. I turned on a broadcast no angel could ignore, and got Metatron to gloat."

"Good times," Dean said, after everyone was quiet for a minute. "So...we won?"

"Yes," Cas replied. "Unequivocally."

“Oh, good,” Claire said.

Dean could hear the unspoken ‘at least it was worth it’ at the end there, and he couldn’t blame her for it. “We’re gonna pack up and head to the bunker, all of us. Want to come, or do you have to head back upstairs?”

Cas shook his head. “I can see you safely there, at least.” He turned to Claire, and eyed Nick for a moment. “It might be easiest if I carry him.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

The angel easily scooped him up, and then Sam led the way down to the car. Claire and Adam conferred briefly, then split up--Adam went to the car they’d brought with them, to follow the Impala back to the bunker; Claire piled into the backseat with Nick and Cas.

It was a long, quiet drive back, and all Dean could really think about was how relieved he was that it was over. And they’d won. For the first time in a long time, they’d freaking _won_ something.

He had a feeling it would be a few days before it actually sank in and felt real--especially given how their boss fights usually ended--but for now, he just reveled in it.

They’d _won._


	68. Part 6, Chapter 10: Castiel

 

**Castiel**

 

Castiel stayed on Earth until he was sure all of the humans were secure in the bunker, at least for the time being. What damage the Winchesters and Claire and Adam had sustained had been repaired, and they were as well as might be expected under the circumstances. Nick had not yet awakened, but he was alive and his soul, so far as Castiel could tell, was intact. There was Meg to be concerned about as well, of course, but she was--well, she was what she was, and bound to go her own way. If she needed him, she would call, and he could find her if he had to. For now, he would keep an eye out, just in case, but largely trust her to keep herself safe.

Not that it would necessarily be easy for her, moving forward--Crowley was, of course, still active, and from what Hannah had told him, Adam had only wounded Abaddon. Severely, true, but in time she would recover, and be a threat again.

He hadn’t asked what the boy had done with Gabriel’s blade. None of them had. Not yet.

But, while Abaddon, and Meg, and Crowley, and the sudden reappearance of an Archangel blade were certainly problems, they were problems for another day. Or for someone else to solve. He had problems and responsibilities of his own in Heaven that took precedence.

He spread his wings and rode glorious sunlight home, light and free and whole again. Even less than a week after being restored, the difference in how he felt was night and day. True, the Grace he had recovered from Claire was still weak, degraded from years cut off from Heaven in an abandoned vessel, but it was _his,_ and rather than slowly poisoning him, it was gradually multiplying itself, as he had known it would. And he would only get stronger with time.

When he arrived, he found a Heaven still--well, not unstable so much as confused. The newly-risen angels were milling about, trying to settle into their old routines, and finding holes in their ranks that hadn’t been there a year ago.

A problem to deal with, yes, and soon, but perhaps not the most urgent.

He made his way, as swiftly and discreetly as he could, to Metatron’s battered office, where Hannah and Naomi waited for him. Hannah was sitting cross-legged on the desk, examining what was left of the typewriter, while Naomi was examining the spines of the various books lining the walls.

Hannah looked up first. “Castiel,” she said, with a smile. “Welcome back.”

He nodded and gave her a brief smile in return, as Naomi turned towards them. She had a fine, silvery chain around her neck, one he was fairly certain hadn’t been there before the Return. Still, he might be mistaken, and there was no real reason to think that new jewelry might be significant.

Except that this was _Naomi,_ and he doubted there was anything at all insignificant in how she chose to present herself. And whatever was hanging from the chain--assuming there was a pendant of some kind--was hidden down her shirt. That could only be important.

He let the silence stretch for another beat, and then said, “So.”

Naomi smiled faintly. “So,” she agreed.

Hannah looked from one of them to the other. “We have a great deal to discuss, I think,” she finally said.

“Yes,” Naomi said amiably. “Starting, I would suggest, with the leadership of Heaven.”

Hannah frowned faintly. “I was thinking that we might try something…something new, and unusual. Self-determination, or rule by communal decision. We haven’t…of late, our leaders seem to be…” She gave Castiel an apologetic glance. “In any case, it seems to work reasonably well for humans.”

Naomi shook her head. “We are not human, sister. We need active leadership.”

“And I suppose,” he cut in, “that you think you are best suited to the position?” It wasn’t that he wanted her in a cell next to Metatron’s, not really--though, to be fair, a part of him _did_ still want either that or to tear her heart out or something equally violent and inappropriate. She had, after all, done many terrible things, to him and the people he cared for. Of course, she had also been instrumental in the Return. She had found and cast the spell. That act at least earned her freedom.

But to put her in a position of power again…

He knew Naomi. He knew her far better than he wished he did. If given power again, she would abuse it again. He was sure of it.

Still smiling, she shook her head again. “No. Or, at least, not alone. Neither of us has done well when handed sole, absolute power over a faction, let alone the entirety of Heaven. Have we, Castiel?”

She had a point. While his mistakes--his crimes--had been less underhanded, at least so far as Heaven was concerned, they had been as brutal, to be sure. “So what are you suggesting?”

“We rule together. You and I could balance each other out. With Hannah’s help, of course, to keep us from tearing one another down.”

It actually wasn’t a terrible idea. If he could stomach working closely with Naomi, long-term, it might even be the best solution available to them. Of course, that was hardly an insignificant caveat.

And, in truth, Hannah and Naomi right about another thing--he had done poorly when last handed command, and he wasn’t entirely sure that _he_ should be risked in such a position either. But given the alternatives…

Perhaps, much as it galled him to admit, Naomi could be just as much of a check on him as he could be on her.

Hannah, however, had her own objection to raise. “What about Gabriel?” she asked.

Naomi blinked. “What about him?”

“If he’s alive--”

“We have no reason to believe that he is.”

She looked over at Castiel. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

He looked away. “I am still not sure how real that was. You know that.”

“But his _blade--_ ”

“Proves nothing,” Naomi said.

“Adam Milligan wielded it, against a Knight of Hell,” Hannah insisted. “It burned his hand, and did Abaddon severe damage. It still holds some kind of close, active connection to Gabriel’s power.”

As much as he hated doing it, Castiel said, “I think Naomi is right. I’m sorry, Hannah. We can’t be certain that Gabriel is alive. The blade--and my vision--alone are not proof. And if he is, we can’t be certain that he will return to Heaven. If he does, we can’t be certain that he will choose to take command. We would be fools to plan on those three uncertainties being truths.”

To say nothing of a fourth uncertainty, one he didn't dare name--that Gabriel had _willingly_ worked with Metatron, and would be yet another worse alternative for Heaven.

“Precisely,” Naomi said. “If Gabriel returns, we will handle him then.”

“Handle him?” Hannah said. “He’s an Archangel!”

“Handle was the wrong word,” she said. “I apologize. If he returns, we will sort out what to do then, with his help if he’s willing to give it. In the meantime, though, Heaven must function, and for Heaven to function, there must be someone to keep things in order.”

Hannah still looked unhappy, but she nodded, withdrawing her objection.

“So, as to that meantime,” Naomi said. “Castiel and I have both been leaders before. Castiel has a certain charisma and force of legend backing him, and I have an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of Heaven. And all of us together brought down Metatron and secured the Return. Who better than we three to serve?”

There was a long moment of silence, which Hannah broke with a sigh. “Castiel, if you will agree, then I will.”

His sisters turned to him, and he considered for a moment. The problem with Naomi, he decided, was that she made sense, far too much of the time. Her reasoning was rarely, if ever, suspect, but the things she _did_ with it--her motives, and most assuredly her tactics--always were. “If we do this,” he said, “we operate by a majority rule. If there is a disagreement, and two of us side against the third, the loser will support the collective decision, once all attempts at persuasion have failed.”

“Agreed,” Naomi said, and Hannah nodded.

Then this might work. Castiel was fairly certain that Hannah would, by and large, side with him--especially considering his reasoning for bringing her into this conspiracy in the first place. With such a safeguard in place, they could safely draw on Naomi’s knowledge and experience while keeping her ambitions in check. It was, despite his own reluctance on several fronts, the least of several bad choices. “Then I agree. We three will rule Heaven, at least until things are stable again.”

“Excellent,” she said, with a smile. “And I think the first thing we need to do, to ensure stability, is to deal with Metatron.”

Castiel blinked. “Metatron? He’s been locked away. He’s secure.”

“He shouldn’t be alive,” Naomi said evenly.

For a moment, none of them spoke, then he shook his head. “No. Too much blood has been spilled in Heaven, Naomi.”

“And if he escapes, how much more will he shed?”

“You really think that’s likely?” Hannah said.

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I do. And even if I didn’t, if any angel's crimes merit execution, surely his are first among them.”

“That may be so,” Castiel said. And Dean had made a similar point, so for a moment, he almost considered it. “But we have been trapped in a cycle of violence for far too long. It has to end somewhere.”

“Metatron is not the place to end it,” she insisted. “Or are you really that naïve, to think he might reform?”

“Gadreel did,” Hannah pointed out.

Castiel flinched internally, remembering his brother’s pain and terror and, hardest of all, that faintest trace of yearning hope at the end. He hoped Gadreel was at peace at last. He hoped the same for all of his fallen brothers and sisters.

“Gadreel was naïve, not malicious,” Naomi said. “He listened to the wrong people and was led to do horrible things as a result of his misplaced trust. His crimes may have been on a level with Metatron’s in terms of blood and consequence, but in terms of _intent_ they were far from the same. And intent is a key part of this question. I believe that, however symbolic or satisfying or right it may feel in the short term, letting Metatron live will leave us open to future horrors. I believe it is a poor choice, short-sighted at best and dangerously reckless at worst.”

They let that simmer for a moment, then Castiel sighed. “Perhaps you are right, Naomi, about the end result of that fundamental difference between Metatron and Gadreel. But my experiences have taught me that cold-blooded murder is never the answer. If Metatron had been killed in the struggle for Heaven, I would hardly weep for him. But I do not believe the key to stability lies in the willful, deliberate death of _any_ other angel. Even this one.”

Naomi turned to Hannah. “And you?”

Hannah hesitated a moment. “What if...what if we removed his Grace, left him human? If you’re wrong about him, Naomi, if he _can_ be redeemed, and the experience brings him to some sort of understanding, we can restore him to his place among us then.”

Castiel blinked. At first glance, Hannah’s idea felt like a good one. If there was anyone he would wish that particular trauma on, it would be Metatron. The bloody justice of an eye for an eye appealed to him more than he cared to admit. And, that aside, it _was_ true that living as a human, for however brief a time, could have a profound impact on the psyche of other entities--he had himself as an example of that, and of course there was Crowley, and Anna. But something about the idea made him uneasy nonetheless. “But if Naomi is right, and he fails to repent, what would that be but a slower, crueller execution?” he asked.

“And you know what would happen to him if he died under those circumstances,” Naomi said, fingering the chain of her new necklace. “Metatron as he is is bad enough, but as a Captain, providing the legions of Hell with the full extent of his knowledge…” She shook her head. “It is too great a risk, and even if Metatron is capable of a change of heart, of re-entering Heaven either as a redeemed human or an angel, having convinced us he’s earned his Grace back, I highly doubt that a single human lifetime would be enough for him to achieve it. We should kill him, simply and efficiently, and be done with it.”

“Then I have to agree with Castiel’s original argument,” Hannah said. “I’m sorry. Enough blood has been spilled in Heaven, and peace has to start somewhere. Metatron should live, despite his crimes.”

She let go of her necklace and spread her hands. “Then Metatron will live.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “That’s it?”

Naomi arched an eyebrow. “I agreed to bow to the collective wisdom. My argument has been heard and found wanting. I will concede the point.”

He still didn’t trust her, but she had agreed. And she was behaving herself so far. “Very well. Anything else?”

She smiled slightly at him. “We should tell the others what we’ve decided, and find what problems most urgently need solving.”

“Did everyone come home?” Hannah asked.

“Too early to tell,” Castiel said. “I know there are angels missing, but…”

He didn’t need to finish that sentence.

“Then that is the first order of business,” Naomi said. “Find out who is here, and who is missing.”

“I agree,” Hannah said, and Castiel nodded as well.

The three of them filed out of the battered office, and Castiel closed the door behind them. Once they discovered who was gone, they would have to find out why, and decide what--if anything--to do with the stragglers.

Restoring Heaven would not be easy, and he still wasn’t sure of his company in doing so, but this was a start, at least. Once they knew where they stood, they could handle the rest. And if he had to remove Naomi in the future…well, he could trust Hannah to support him in that.

But he found himself hoping, despite everything he knew about Naomi, despite the fact that he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was keeping an important secret from them, that that would be unnecessary. He’d meant what he’d said--enough blood had been shed in Heaven, and he had done more than enough of that shedding in his time.

_Let this hold together. Let us make peace in Heaven._

From there, he could find solutions to all his other problems. But stability in Heaven had to come first. He just hoped that, now that the situation was less dire, allying with Naomi would continue to serve that end.


	69. Part 6, Chapter 11: Amelia

 

**Amelia**

 

Adam was with Sam. He’d managed to persuade his brother to teach him how to fight properly with his angel blade--or maybe they were just talking. Amelia had no way of knowing. A part of her hoped they were just talking, anyway. As uncomfortable as their conversations would have to be, at least they didn’t involve sharp objects. Hopefully.

Claire was with Dean, playing poker and gambling with M&Ms. Amelia had a feeling that they were playing less for the fun of it--or even to keep Claire from worrying too much--and more so Dean could teach her daughter how to cheat. She wasn’t exactly happy about that, but it was far from the worst thing she could have been learning, especially given that this was Dean Winchester. So she held her peace. For now.

As for herself, she’d been sitting with Nick, waiting for him to wake up. They’d all been taking turns since bringing him here, so he wouldn’t wake alone. Or that was what Claire had told her, anyway. She’d somehow managed to time showing up for shortly after Castiel left. She’d been very lucky there. She had no interest in seeing the angel, no matter how much Claire seemed to have forgiven him. _She_ hadn’t, and she didn’t think she ever would.

Still no change, with Nick. Not that she could see.

She fiddled with her phone for a while, because there was something else she should have been doing, too.

Her…contract…with Crowley was due for renegotiation at the end of the week. And she had what the demon king wanted. She’d been stalling because, well, as soon as she’d gotten _away_ from Crowley, the whole thing had seemed like more and more of a terrible mistake. She’d even done her best to forget the whole conversation, forget the demon’s face, until she’d stumbled across its answer.

And then she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

The question was the same--safety for her family, weighed against putting something with an unknown threat level in a powerful demon’s hands.

She watched Nick breathe, shallow but steady, and pictured Adam and his brother and accidentally-drawn blood, and imagined Claire wandering the earth, all her focus on her impossible quest to keep all of humanity safe from possession.

It was in her hands to keep them safe.

She had to keep them safe.

But she couldn’t do it in front of him.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised Nick in a whisper, knowing he couldn’t hear her anyway, figuring she’d be back long before he knew it, and stepped out into the hall.

Crowley’s number had been programmed into her phone without her knowledge, probably as soon as she’d signed the damn contract. She’d come close to deleting it a couple times, before deciding to just ignore it.

So maybe she’d always planned to do this, even when she was telling herself she’d changed her mind.

Texting. Texting was better. She didn’t want to have to hear its voice again.

“I have what you asked for,” she tapped out, as quickly as she could, then hit ‘send’ before she could change her mind.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzed in her hand. “At last. Where is it?”

She swallowed. _Too late now._ “Heaven, with the pieces of the angel tablet.” At least the actual information almost made the whole thing less awful, because of course it couldn’t enter Heaven to retrieve what it wanted. Besides, it had _said_ it wouldn’t hold an unreachable location against her.

It didn’t respond for almost a full minute and Amelia began to panic a little inside. What if it had changed its mind? What if it decided her answer wasn’t good enough?

But, “Well done, Mrs. Novak,” it finally replied.

She let out a shaky, relieved breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Our bargain?”

An instant reply this time. “I’m a man of my word. You and yours will be protected. And because you’ve been such a good sport, I’ll even throw in the ring. You’ll find it waiting for you next time you collect your mail.”

Amelia froze, staring at the last two sentences. _He is going to hold that over me forever. I will never be free._

But she couldn’t refuse, couldn’t tell the demon to leave it and be done, couldn’t forfeit her brother’s sanity on that golden thread. It would find a way to use _that_ against her, too. It wasn’t exactly a surprise--she’d known going in he was a loan shark, known the bargain was too good to be true, but...

Well, it was too late now, even if she wanted to turn back. As soon as possible, she’d figure out how to explain it to Nick without sending him into a downward spiral of toxic guilt, and give him back his ring.

She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the finality of the bargain weighing on her, then deleted the texts as thoroughly as she knew how before slipping her phone back into her pocket.

It was done. She’d done it. Her family would be _safe_ now. Her brother even had his anchor back.

She went down the hall to the bathroom, to splash a little cold water on her face and make sure no one could read what she’d done in her expression. Better not to have to answer questions until she was sure she knew how she wanted to explain this. She’d probably have to find a way to pull ahead of the others and retrieve the ring before they came home--not that she planned to keep it from them, or not give Nick his ring, just...she needed to control how and when she told them. But that should be manageable.

She stared at herself in the mirror now, trying to swallow down her strange mix of relief and revulsion at what she’d done. They were _safe._ That was the important thing. She told herself so over and over again. And Nick would be awake soon, and everything would go back to normal--a new normal, a _better_ normal. And it wasn’t like the demon could use what she’d given it.

Amelia closed her eyes briefly, then turned the water off, letting out a breath she hadn’t meant to be holding. It was done. She’d done it.

She refused to regret it now.


	70. Part 6, Chapter 12: Nick

 

**Nick**

 

The first thing he was conscious of was gravity.

He felt curiously heavy, as if he was sinking through the core of the earth. Even the idea of moving, of trying to resist that force, was exhausting.

After gravity came temperature. He wasn't cold, and he didn't feel fevered, either. He seemed to be, by some miracle, in one of his rare moments of internal balance. At least where temperature was concerned; everything else was still...well, not.

Sound came next, but there wasn't much to go by. Wherever he was, it was indoors, and there wasn't a lot of ambient noise. He heard water running, and what might or might not be soft voices, not too far away.

The water stopped, and, after a moment, Nick finally dragged himself all the way up out of the heavy fog and opened his eyes.

He was in a bare, Spartan room with cinderblock walls and a dark grey carpet. He didn't recognize it, other than that it was definitely _not_ the ritual house. There was a covered lamp in one corner, so the room was dim, but not totally dark. He had been left alone, settled into a wide bed. The door was cracked open just a little. A small kindness--being in an unfamiliar, sealed room would have frightened him, made him feel trapped again.

That was encouraging. Only Claire or Adam would have thought to do that, and the fact that they were _able_ to had to mean things had gone all right.

Of course, other than that, he had no idea what had happened, or what was happening now, or even where he was.

Well, only one way to find out, he supposed.

Nick drew in a deep breath and, slowly, carefully, tried to sit up.

The good news was, he was still in control of his body. It moved when he told it to.

Or it made a valiant effort, anyway.

It actually didn't hurt, which was a blessing, but the room tilted dangerously around him, almost as if that sucking, too-strong gravity wanted to pull it all away and leave him hanging. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for equilibrium-- _any equilibrium._

Dimly, he heard footsteps in the hall outside, then felt a hand resting on his, and a voice spoke above him.

He clung to those sensations, that hand, those sounds, until the world anchored itself around them, and he could make out the words, and even identify the voice.

"Easy, Nick," _Amelia_ \--when had she gotten here? How long had he been…?--was saying. "It's okay. We've got you. You're safe."

He blinked hazily up at her, not quite trusting his ears. "...'Melia?" he said, and he thought it came out mostly clear.

She smiled. "You're all right. Everyone's all right. Just don't try to move too fast, okay?"

He nodded, and the room swam again. "Where...wh-where are we...?"

"The Winchesters' bunker," she said. "Apparently, it was closer, and, after Claire talked them out of bringing you to a hospital, they didn't want to move you any more than they had to."

He blinked. "That bad?"

Amelia looked away. "I just got here yesterday, after the angels left to rebuild things in Heaven."

_Yesterday?_ "How...how long have I been...?"

"Four days," she said.

He let out a breath. " _Four days?_ " His vision went grey at the edges. He couldn't draw another one, not a deep one, anyway, just something shallow and frantic and _four days?_ He'd lost _four days?_

"Easy--" she said, sounding worried, and squeezed his hand gently.

He closed his eyes, and focused on breathing slowly, until the room stopped swaying around him. "Four days?" he whispered, opening his eyes again.

She nodded. "You've been here the whole time. I promise. Claire and Adam and the Winchesters have been looking out for you. You've been sleeping, that's all. And it worked," she added, as reassuringly as she could manage. "The spell--it _worked._ "

He caught himself before nodding again, and just focused on breathing. "G-good. That's...and everyone's okay? No one...no one died?"

"One of the angels did," she said. "Claire said its name was Gadreel. But everyone else...everyone else is okay now."

"Okay," he said. Of course, that meant Karl had died, too, but--okay.

_He was scared, and I really wanted to help him._

He closed his eyes again.

"How are you feeling?" Amelia asked quietly.

Nick considered for a moment. He still felt--the pain was still less than usual, oddly enough, so there was that, at least. But he was still stuck with that disconcerting sense of _gravity,_ and any movement made the room spin.

"Strange," he finally said. "Dizzy."

"Any pain?"

"No more than usual." Or maybe he was just too damn tired to feel it.

"All right," she said. "Just rest, okay? I'll let Claire and Adam know you're awake, and we'll get you home as soon as we can, all right?"

_Home._

He realized, with a jolt of not-quite-pain, that when she said the word, he didn't picture the blue house, the bloody house--not anymore. Instead, he conjured up the grey house, the vessel house, where Amelia and Claire had given him and Adam shelter.

"Okay," he finally said.

"You'll be all right." She sounded like she believed it.

And, after a moment, he almost did as well. He was still dizzy, still disoriented, still weirdly off-balance, but...

The spell had worked. It had _worked._ The angels were back in Heaven. He was still human. He still had his soul. Almost everyone had survived.

And, when he could sit up without wanting to black out, he could go back to the vessel house.

He could go _home._

He let out a breath, sinking back into gravity, and maybe it would crush him again tomorrow--the guilt and the grief and the fear and the shame of it all--but tonight, he felt safe, and sheltered, and loved, and wholly himself, and even like he'd started to fix what he'd been used to break.

And, for the first time in seven long years, he felt the faintest glimmer of peace.


End file.
